


This Is How We Grow

by PartlyCloudySkies, secretsoup



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), And Became a Farmer, Art, Awkward Crush, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Illustrations, No Ducktales AU, Slow Burn, Stardew Valley AU, The Nephews Never Come to the Mansion, Webby Grew Up Alone, look just roll with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartlyCloudySkies/pseuds/PartlyCloudySkies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsoup/pseuds/secretsoup
Summary: There is a valley where the waves crash against the cliffs, rivers flow through ancient forests and ruins from forgotten times jut from the earth like the bones of giants. The people there say that if you are ever in need, the valley can provide.Webby lived her life preparing for the adventures she knew to be just over the horizon; but the adventures never came.Lena has spent so long in hiding she has forgotten how to do anything else. The shadows are never too far away.What they are missing, the valley can yet provide.A Weblena AU including amazing art by secretsoup!
Relationships: Lena (Disney: DuckTales)/Webby Vanderquack
Comments: 113
Kudos: 173





	1. Prologue

#  _Prologue_

### A Path Yet Available

It was all meant to be different. Webby wasn’t sure of much, but she was sure of _that_ much.

The door swung open to her unlit apartment. She tossed her key in a neat arc and it caught the hook on the wall by its keyring. Her hair fell across the back of her aching neck and slumped shoulders as she undid her hair tie. She flicked open the top button of her blouse and sighed as she felt the pressure leave her throat.

With a deep breath she shrugged off her jacket and left it where it lay. She heard the name tag pinned to her lapel clatter as it bounced on the floor. Even as she slouched into her apartment, letting the door swing shut behind her, there was that small, evil voice in her brain that scolded her about how the jacket would get wrinkled if she left it there and dry cleaners were expensive and she wasn’t exactly living large so —

Her fists balled up tightly as she turned back. It was all meant to be _different_.

Sullen and wretched, she wrenched open her tiny closet and hung her work clothes up properly. Then she slumped into a ragged little loveseat that was one of the few pieces of furniture that she owned and which served as her bed half the time, and she let out a breath that left her deflated. After a moment passed she attempted to reach over to the standing lamp, the sole source of illumination in her place outside the bathroom and the oven light. But her arms did not reach and she gave up quickly. This was it.

So she stared up at the ceiling, textured with stucco like tiny stalactites. And it was as she was staring, unseeing, that she came to a conclusion.

If she had to walk back into that bank again, take her spot at the teller station again, spend hours counting out bills and cashing checks and pushing bank products that her clients couldn’t afford all so she could put herself on the sales chart that dominated the break room, then she was finally going to kill the branch manager in that really interesting way she had fantasized about. The one that involved the pens with the chains attached to them. Punishment would come, but she would surrender to it. It would be worth it. It would be worth it to not be there anymore.

She looked away. One time the upstairs neighbor had stomped on their floor so hard it cracked a piece of Webby’s ceiling off and it landed right in her tomato soup. Staring too long invited an eye injury. Instead she looked at her coffee table and felt a sour pit in her stomach upon remembering the bills she had left there. Was no place safe to even look at?

Webby heaved herself up, facing the still open closet. It had mainly become a storage space for the things she didn’t have room for, which was most things. In her apartment. In her life. One or the other or both. Her collection of knives, throwing stars. Gas canisters for her grappling hook. Her old night-vision goggles, which still kind of fit after she readjusted the straps. Crossbow and bolts. The sword that she loved dearly and could never part with even if it took up a ridiculous amount of space. All of it crammed into boxes stacked unevenly atop one another leaving just enough room so she could hang some clothes up.

Boxed up like this, at least her weapons and tools were close at hand. Even if they were mostly decorative at this point. Like porcelain angels or crystal sculptures of woodland animals. Mementos of a life that never started. No adventures, no mysteries, no secret maps of the world. Just… growing up. Moving out. Getting a job. All those years spent in a mansion with its mysterious adventurer-entrepreneur and the most she had to show for it was when he gave her a butterscotch candy on her birthday before stomping off back to be moody in one of his many studies.

Scrooge McDuck was never a personable sort. Which was odd, considering how he had such a huge family. That never visited. Ever. Probably due to his glowing personality. It was a shame. He had nephews that were around Webby’s age. She would have liked to meet them. Maybe they could’ve been friends.

Instead, she grew up alone in a mansion of empty rooms and dusty corridors. Well. Not _literally_ dusty. Granny was there too and if she could piledrive dust bunnies, she would. But, like, metaphorical dust. The dust of neglect and loneliness and that one time when she really wanted to ring the Gong of Pixiu just to see what would happen but she was too good a person to do that and maybe being a good person wasn’t all it was cracked up to be _really_.

She tried not to think too uncharitably about those years, but it was hard not to. Not after another shift spent sharing a bulletproof cage with coworkers crushed under the same grind and the realization that _that’s going to be her_ if she stayed.

After assuming that she was meant for bigger things, it was a hard thing to take.

With on one hand on the door her eyes were drawn to the boxes, compressed beneath the weight of her broadsword in its stiff leather scabbard. Webby’s palms itched. What if she just… slept with a dagger under her pillow? For old time’s sakes?

The dim light caught the gleam of metal edges.

And a white rectangle.

Webby had a near perfect memory of her armory inventory. This did not fit in that memory. It did not belong.

Senses now alert, Webby felt the goosebumps on her arms. What could this be? A trap? Left by her enemies?

Of course not. Webby didn’t lead that kind of life. The kind of life where you had enemies and adventures and friends. She plucked the object gingerly from the bed of knives and held it in both hands.

It was an envelope. Fancy, as far as stationary went. Webby frowned at it. A formal declaration that a ninja clan was after Webby’s head? An invitation to a vampire ball where she’d be fighting for her life in a backdrop of moodily lit gothic rooms draped with red velvet tapestries?

Ah. If only. This was probably a bill that slipped out of her pocket. Or one of those letters that look like highly personalized correspondence but was actually someone trying to sell insurance.

With a flick of her wrist, the spring-loaded blade hidden up her sleeve snapped out. However dull her life had become, she still didn’t go about that life unarmed. The blade glided easily through the envelope.

Inside were two pages, one a hand-written letter. She unfolded it, letting the envelope flutter to the ground.

She recognized her grandmother’s handwriting immediately.

_Webbigail,_

_My dear granddaughter, I write to you in the hopes that this will find you in a time that you need it most._

_As I raised you, I did so with the intention of preparing you for anything. Yet I suppose the one scenario I failed to foresee was mundanity. Please know that this failing falls solely on me. Perhaps, once, I would have even been happy to see you settle into a normal life. Whatever life you choose, know that I am and always will be proud of you. Yet as I have watched you grow, I have come to realize what a cruelty it is to expect you to settle for normalcy._

_For that reason, I have placed within this envelope the deed to a property that I had acquired many years ago in the course of my time in espionage. It was intended to be a safehouse should an operation go wrong._

Webby’s eyebrows popped up involuntarily. She moved to find better light before continuing to read:

_I have never found a use for it. Which is a point of pride for me. As you might surmise, the property is no doubt in some disrepair. However, I know how much you love a project. I am reliably told that the valley it is located in has a reputation for being rather idyllic, a hidden gem, some might say._

_I hesitate to tell you how to live your life, but know this: you have an option. The property is yours, the deed contained within makes it so. It may not be an apartment in the city, but on the other hand, it isn’t an apartment in the city. If you ever need to get away, that path is available to you._

_With all my love,  
Bentina_

Looking up from the letter, Webby stared unfocused into the gloom of her closet. Then she looked down and re-read it. She held the deed in her hand. It was a small legal document, with an address and Granny’s signature and some legal babble. And stamped by a notary. So apparently it was official.

Well.

Still slightly stunned, Webby walked stiffly to her little kitchenette and put the papers down on the counter next to the sink. She kept her eye on them, as if expecting them to evaporate the moment she let go. When they didn’t, Webby reached for her phone and tapped through her contacts. She hit a number and waited through the ringing until someone picked up.

“Hi Claire, this is Webby,” she said. “Can you transfer me over to Chance? I need to talk to him. That’s fine, I’ll leave a message on his answering machine, thanks.”

She waited a beat. Heard the machine pick up. Her boss’s pre-recorded message play. Then the beep.

“Hi,” Webby said. “I’m Webby. And I quit.”

She disconnected the call.

That felt _great_.

Before she put her phone away, something occurred to Webby. She held it up and dialed another number. The phone rang. Then there was a click.

“Speak.”

“Hi Granny!” Webby said.

“Webby, my dear. How are you doing?” She sounded older now, the age crackling at the edges of her voice, but she still spoke with a tone of strong, clear authority and Webby could use a little guidance right now.

“Well, I just quit my job.”

“That would explain why you sound excited for the first time in a while,” Granny said. Webby could hear her smile through the phone.

“Do I… sound excited?”

“You do, dear. You’ve hardly made it a secret that you hated that job. Good for you. What’s your next step?”

“Oh! Right. That’s why I called you. I found, uh, this letter? In one of my boxes? From you?”

“Ah. I was wondering when you would get to that.”

“You couldn’t have just told me?”

“I felt that you would rather come to a decision on your own.”

“I… guess. I think I’m going to take you up on your offer.”

“I should hope that you made that decision before you quit, dear.”

“Ha ha… yeah.” There was a pause. Webby wasn’t sure what to say.

“If I may be so bold,” Bentina said after a gap of silence, “I have always known you to be the one to charge headlong into new experiences. If you find yourself hesitating now, then perhaps this is a sign that it’s time to recapture that spirit.”

“That’s… you’re right, Granny.” Webby stood tall. Or at least, as tall as she could. “I’m going! I’m doing this! I just need to buy a ticket to… to…” she squinted at the deed, at the address, faded with age.

“Where is Starduck Valley, exactly?” she said.

* * *

Sunlight steeped in verdant green filtered through the forest canopy and fell upon a garden hemmed in by a circle of rough-hewn fence posts lashed together with coarse hemp. At first glance, a wanderer stumbling upon this garden might find it ramshackle. Though closer inspection would reveal careful construction, both the rope and wood treated to resist weathering, the posts buried deep and secure.

The garden within was modest, but dense. Potted herbs and wildflowers shared space with two neat rows of tilled soil. Tomatoes hung from trellises and bushy leaves sprouted from root vegetables. A small, boxy apiary, splintered and covered in sun-faded paint that had once been vibrant red but was now a pale pink. From within it, bees buzzed.

One bee weaved through the air, moving ponderously across the garden to a vivid purple wildflower that bobbed in the wind. The slightest breeze sent it up and down, and the bee made several passes, missing each time.

A shadow fell over the bee and the flower.

Slender fingers reached out and neatly pinched the flower’s stem, holding it steady.

The bee landed and crawled, vibrating over its prize.

A weary voice sighed, and the bee’s antennae stirred. A woman, crouching over the floor, regarded the tableau coolly with golden eyes. “Can’t believe you need my help. You are hopeless. The clowns of the insect world.”

The bee seemed unashamed. In time, it flew away, tracing a lazy, slow course back to its hive.

She knelt there for a moment longer. Then, with another sigh, Lena released the flower and stood up, dusting off her gardening clothes. She looked up at the sky, at the rays of light peeking around the thick canopy of leaves.

It was going to be another beautiful day. Another beautiful, sunny, idyllic, boring, dull day in Starduck Valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This Is How We Grow_ is a Stardew Valley weblena AU.
> 
> Updates will be on Saturdays.
> 
> With art by secretsoup, who is also my proofreader, fellow brainstormer and who initially came up with this AU and has contributed material to it.
> 
> If you like, please kudos and comment and thank you for reading!


	2. Valley Blooming

  


****

### **Part One: Spring Mix**

 __

### Valley Blooming

The road from Duckburg was a long stretch of asphalt that ran atop a ridge that rose high above the surrounding landscape. To one side lay a basin of flat farmland. Low, lazy clouds drifted and cast shadows onto the fields. On the other was a dramatic slope downward that ended at the sea. Seagulls circled in spiraling flocks. The blue of the ocean and the blue of the sky met in a distant haze.

Webby lay back in her seat and stared past the road that blurred beneath her, to the ocean horizon. She had just about exhausted her repertoire of road trip distractions. It turned out I Spy and Punch Buggy only got a person so far when they were the only one on the bus aside from the driver, and the driver had made it clear on no uncertain terms that she was to remain in her seat after the first five minutes of small talk she attempted to make. So she kept busy, quietly recited epic viking poems in their original Norse, practiced her Sumerian cuneiform writing, went down a mental list of poisons and antidotes. Hours later, while she was using her finger to trace druidic runes into the seat in front of her, the bus made its turn.

It took an exit ramp, diverging from the highway which followed the curve of the coastline. The road plunged downward, off the ridge and slipping under a canopy of leaves so thick that they smothered the sunlight and roused Webby from her reverie. It was as if she was in a submarine diving into the deep. Green leaves glowed and filtered the sunlight into an emerald aura that blanketed the land underneath, shafts of light shot through the gaps and motes danced in the beams like a dream.

She had tried to look up information about Starduck Valley. There was little beyond a dry listing of statistics. Population, area and so on. The largest settlement was a small place called Pelican Town and her new property sat on its border. Otherwise she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Her heart raced at the uncertainty, whether out of excitement or nerves was something she hadn’t quite settled on. For the first time in far too long, Webby didn’t know what the day would bring.

Into the valley they descended further still. She had assumed they were close, but it would be another hour before the first sign of civilization. They drove across a stone arch bridge overlooking water cascading off the side of the valley. Webby could see a building standing among the rocks at the top of the waterfall. It vanished behind the trees as abruptly as it appeared. Still, seeing that someone lived or _had_ lived out here was a relief.

Eventually, the bus squealed to a halt in front of an overpass. It pulled up along a gravel shoulder and stopped next to a rusty old sign that probably said “BUS” in the past but was weather-streaked to the point Webby could only see “JS”.

Next to it, two men stood, side-by-side. They peered into the tinted windows of the bus expectantly.

Webby hauled her bag out of the overhead compartment. Outside, the driver was already struggling at her larger luggage.

She packed light, considering she had uprooted her life. Several day’s worth of clothes, some money, some electronics, batteries, one sword, two daggers and her grapple gun. The weapons she had to store below. Safety, or something.

When she lifted her rough canvas sack, she could hear them clanking together. She thanked the bus driver as he circled back to return to his vehicle.

“Webbigail, uh, Vanderquack?”

Webby turned, shouldering her luggage and carry-on as she did. The two men had dark plumage and friendly faces. One was large and brawny with a severe flattop haircut, the other had a more average build and curly hair. Their expressions seemed open and earnest, with Curly Hair reading her name off of a card.

“I’m Webby,” she said warily.

“Good, good. I’m Indy.” Curly Hair pocketed the card and extended his hand. Webby shook it. He gestured to Flattop “And this handsome fellow is my husband, Ty.”

“Good to meet you. Need any help with those bags?”

“I’m fine,” said Webby.

Indy cleared his throat. “Well, we are your welcome committee from Pelican Town. Your property sits just inside our borders, which makes you our newest resident!’

“How’d you know I was coming?”

“Your, ah, grandmother called ahead. Let us know that the old farm would be occupied soon.”

“I don’t think she ever actually came here,” said Webby.

“Oh, she didn’t,” Ty said with a nod. “Never seen her in person, but she hired me ages ago to keep the place standing. Been a long-running thing, but she says you’re to take care of it now.”

“So you’re a… carpenter?” Webby said.

“Carpenter and then some. If you need anything done, wood, electric, HVAC, plumbing, I’m your guy.” Ty ducked his head, then clapped Indy on the shoulder. “And the husband here is the town doctor. Smartest thing in the valley, maybe with the exception of our kid. On top of that, we sort of co-chair the town council. So if you ever find issue with anyone, you let us know.”

Webby took all this in. An entire town, and they seemed friendly enough. She tilted her head. “Interesting. Do you find a council to be an efficient form of government? Would you say it makes you more or less likely to fall under the sway of a charismatic individual acting in bad faith? Are there checks and balances and modes of accountability?”

Indy and Ty traded looks. “Oh, we simply must introduce you to our daughter,” Indy said to Webby. “I think you two would get along very nicely.”

“Yup,” added Ty. “But at the moment I imagine you’d rather see to your new land.”

The trip had been draining, and she would quite like to be under a roof of her own. “That sounds good, actually.”

* * *

She followed them down a broad, dirt path that led off from the road. When they came to a fork, they turned inland.

“Other way’s Pelican Town,” Ty had said. “Nice little place. Good people. Not nearly as rustic as you might think, I saw to that. We got a general store with just about anything you need, a saloon — you are old enough to… okay, okay, just making sure — we got a library and a beach and a good pier if fishing interests you. You can get to the water on your side of the valley too, but it’s mostly a cliff overlook and… well… anyway, it’s, you know, real breathtaking stuff. The view.” He traded a look with Indy. Something unspoken passed between them.

“Okay…” Webby said. The look had not escaped her. They were hiding something. Internally, she thrilled. _A mystery! Reluctant locals, ominous silences! There’s potential here!_ A part of her, long dormant under dusty layers of years of subsistence wages, stirred.

But then they passed a line of trees, and once clear of it they were greeted with the saddest sight Webby ever did see.

“Oh… my…” she said.

“I know what it looks like,” said Ty. “And I won’t lie. It’s a fixer upper.”

The house, to Ty’s credit, seemed fairly well maintained. Four walls of wood siding, a gable roof with red shingles and brick chimney, windows, a door. It all checked out to Webby. The problem was everything else. There used to be a fence. What it was now… using it as kindling would be an insult to campfires. The house overlooked a field that had been nearly completely reclaimed by the surrounding forest. Raggedy weeds and scrawny saplings grew wild on hard-packed dirt. A filthy pond that must have seen abuse from passing litterbugs was choked with Pep cans and soggy newspapers. There might have been another structure, somewhere beyond the house. From where Webby was standing, it was mostly ruin.

“I thought you were supposed to take care of the place?” Webby said.

“I was. And I did. I was only responsible for the house itself. The land and any other structures on it fell out of my purview,” Ty said, holding one finger up for emphasis.

Webby attempted to pick her way through the field. A tangle of weeds seemed to snap at her and she saw feral eyes staring back at her from a thicket.

“Hm,” she said.

“It’s not so bad,” said Indy. “The roots can’t have gone too deep, seeing as the soil is so hard. That’s… that’s how it works, right?”

“Maybe?” Webby’s applied agriculture was woefully rusty.

“That’s the spirit,” said Ty. “A little elbow grease and this place will be prime real estate! The land here is good, regardless how it might look right now. And, it’s all yours, Ms. Vanderquack. Keys are in the mailbox.”

“If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to stop by in town. We have tools, seeds, more!” said Indy.

“Seeds?” Webby said. “Am I supposed to be… farming?”

The couple traded another look. Ty nodded at her. “I suppose you can do whatever you like with the property, but like I said, the land is good. With some care it’ll give you mighty fine crops.”

“We’re all quite eager to meet our newest resident, so stop by,” said Indy. “I’m sorry we’re going so quickly but our daughter… ah…”

“If we don’t check on her every once in a while she tries to… I dunno, launch a rocket or transmute lead into gold.” Ty said.

Indy chuckled. “She’ll get it eventually, love.”

“Sure, but until then _I’m_ the one who has to rebuild the tool shed every time she burns it down.”

They said their goodbyes and Webby watched them disappear behind the trees on the path back to their town. They seemed nice. Preoccupied but nice. Webby retrieved the key and picked her way through the weeds to her new house.

It was cozy once she got inside. It was even furnished, albeit sparsely. A bed, twin-sized and in a rough-hewn wooden frame. A small kitchen table with a small chair. A kitchenette nearly as austere as the one in her old apartment. Refrigerator, mini. A fireplace, a bathroom. Thankfully there was plumbing and electricity but beyond that... If she wanted to be cynical about this, she could have observed that she hadn’t traded up much.

Webby shook her head. It didn’t help to be cynical. The land was hers and that was something. It was a big something. And… farming…

She had imagined a lot of futures for herself when she was young. Explorer, adventurer, spy, superhero, dragon tamer, vampire hunter. A lot of futures. She wasn’t sure if farmer ever really entered into her list. It sounded complicated. There were fertilizers and seasons and tools to consider. Could you till with a sword? She didn’t know enough to know if that was even a stupid question or not.

“Okay!” Webby said. She shook her head to clear it of doubt. There was a hook next to the door and on it hung a raggedy but mostly still intact straw hat. She took it, shook off the dust vigorously and placed it on her head. “First things first! Inspect the perimeter of my new base of operations!” She felt her heart race even as she said the words. She was _doing this_.

Outside, the perimeter turned out to be a very limited space around the house. The rest of it was claimed by the snarl and tangle of nature. On the porch was a small wooden box with a hinged lid. The hinges squealed when Webby pried it open. Light fell across splintered wooden handles and rusted metal. Webby smiled.

They were _tools_.

Not exactly the best that money could buy. A shovel, an axe, a pickaxe, some other things Webby wasn’t quite sure what their names were. What mattered was that she had even more sharp metal objects she could hit nature with. She wasn’t just doing this, she _could_ do this.

She felt lightheaded. The thrill of starting a new life. Either that or it was a mix of adrenaline and hunger. She hadn’t eaten much and it was getting into the evening. And she was probably going to have to do _something_ about money. Unless food was free around here, her savings wasn’t going to last long.

A moment later, her premises secured, sword and various weapons stowed under the bed, Webby walked towards town.

* * *

Pelican Town seemed… nice. Webby had only ever known Duckburg, either the dark halls of McDuck manor or the tall buildings of the city that blotted out the sun. Pelican Town could not have contrasted more. It radiated from a central plaza commanded by the general store and saloon. There were pleasant little houses on rolling hills, hiding under the shade of trees that cast sun-dappled shadows against white picket fences and colorful siding. Webby had never really seen nature and people living side by side like that. Back in the mansion the lawn had always been aggressively manicured to look like a green carpet with sculpted topiary.

It was… nice. Webby wasn’t quite sure what to do with nice. She wondered what the odds were for a werewolf attack.

“A silver blade, that’s what I forgot to pack,” she said to herself as she peered through the window of the general store. “I wonder if Granny can recommend a supplier.” She peered at the saloon, a flat-roofed building of dark brick.

It probably had food. Did saloons have food? Weren’t these places more of an alcohol thing? There was a lot going on here that Webby never really dealt with.

It was evening and a trickle of people filed in. She didn’t hear any screaming, so it was probably fine. It was probably nice. Like everything else here. So it was silly that she was acting like she was about to raid a wyvern’s nest. No, she liked to think she’d never hesitate before raiding a wyvern’s nest, and this was her chance to prove it. At a bar in a small town. Webby took a deep breath and marched in.

“Well hello stranger! Oh, wow, I don’t get to say that much. This is a special occasion!”

Webby’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark interior. A great deal of masonry and wood paneling, and figures huddled in booths and hunched on top of stools. And someone behind the bar, waving excitedly.

“Hi,” Webby said. “I’m —”

“Webby! Yes! I was hoping you’d drop by! Whoa!” There was a noise of glass falling against wood as the figure fumbled with something and then stepped out from behind the bar. Webby’s eyes adapted to the low light.

Her greeter was a woman, tall and animated with a wide smile on her beak and her blond hair in a fluffy bob that bounced as she walked. She wore relaxed clothes, a flowing blouse at odds with the apron tied around her. She extended her hand and Webby took it automatically.

“This is so awesome! A new face! Where are you from? Why are you here? Oh, I’m Dickie by the way! Proprietress-in-training of the Snowdrift Saloon! Also I do the live acts. Live singing, live music, live comedy, live stage acting, live poetry readings. Also unofficial town journalist. I would have gone to see you arrive but Gigi likes to call randomly to make sure I’m here. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care but I did explode the fryer last week so, you know, gotta be on my best behavior. At least for a little while. What kind of food do you like? I’ll whip something up! What did you think of the Sabrewing couple? Aren’t they the cutest? What do you do for fun? Are you gonna stay permanently? Wanna start a book club? I love your clothes!”

Between the barrage of questions and the very energetic handshake she was being subjected to, Webby wasn’t quite sure what to do. _Is this what it’s like when people meet me?_

“I, uh, yes,” she said. “Hello. Yes.” Her eyes wandered towards the bar. She smelled food and it was a good smell.

Dickie tracked the motion. “Oh! You must be starving! Of course you are. I don’t think there’s anything to eat out there unless you’re foraging berries or something. Take a seat, take a seat, what can I get you? I’ll warn you I’m quite the cook.”

Webby wasn’t sure that was something you were supposed to warn people about but she was at the point where she’d roll with it. There wasn’t a menu when she hopped into a stool. Just Dickie, beaming at her and vibrating with excitement even as she adjusted her apron and washed her hands. Webby looked around. Most of the patrons were involved in their own meals and conversations. She got a few curious stares and nods from the others.

_So many new faces_ , she thought to herself. And if she were serious about this change in her life, those new faces were going to become familiar. Everything had moved so quickly. She had shoved most of her belongings into storage, got out of her lease and came to a strange town to live in an abandoned farmhouse. Webby had always thought of herself as a person who did not flinch in the face of the unknown. But that person was also a little girl who had never left the mansion of the most storied adventurer of the modern era. The years on her own, working menial jobs to hold onto a miserable little apartment had tarnished that old shine. Adventure had taken a backseat to keeping up with payments. She didn’t want to go back to the old days, but she wanted to _want_. To feel that thirst for new things and new places. She wanted to explore, she wanted mysteries, she wanted…

“A hamburger.”

Dickie somehow managed to smile even wider. She snapped her fingers. “That I can do!”

They talked as Dickie cooked. Dickie was a whirlwind of energy, dancing in place to the jukebox, working through the sizzle of meat and clatter of pans, all while pouring drinks for the other patrons. She held multiple conversations at once, trading daily gossip with the locals while ceaselessly grilling Webby for news of the outside world.

“You’re from Duckburg? Oh my gosh! The big city!” Dickie looked dreamily into the middle distance before a gout of flame shooting up from the cooking range brought her back to reality. “I’d give anything to go there, I’d take the place by storm. A lone artist making her way through the skyscraper jazz bars and the back alley mosh pits!”

“What’s stopping you?” said Webby.

“Oh, I need to be here,” Dickie said. “My Gigi owns this place but I keep it running. Besides, if I leave, what will everyone here have to talk about?”

“Have you been here your whole life?” Webby said. Over the course of their conversation she had pieced together that “Gigi” meant grandmother. A mysterious figure that Dickie alternately teased and cared for.

“Back in college I used to roadtrips on the regular with my pals. And before that my Gigi and I traveled a lot. But then all of a sudden she called me up after I graduated and told me she bought up this old joint and she needed someone of my _many_ talents to help her get it on its feet. Been here ever since!”

“Do you… like it?” Webby said. She sat back as Dickie twirled to face her and placed a plate on the bar. A hamburger, steaming and on a toasted bun, overflowing with veggies and cheese. French fries piled next to it. It was, Webby decided, probably the best thing she had ever seen in her life and she didn’t care if it was mostly her stomach talking.

“Oh, this place is super charming!” Dickie said. She watched Webby bite into her meal with obvious pleasure, and smiled. “Like, between the sea and the valley and the forest and the folks, there’s something just… inspiring about it! What about you? What’s your first impression?”

Webby thought as she chewed. She didn’t have much to go by. She had seen the sea, the valley, the forest and the folks, though only a little bit. There were all…

“Nice,” she said after swallowing. “It’s all nice.”

Dickie laughed sympathetically. “Yeah, I get it. It’s not exactly the height of excitement. Especially for someone from Duckburg. But trust me, this place grows on you. Us locals like to say that the valley provides you with everything you need.”

“Like, crops?”

“Sure, that. It’s super good farmland. But I mean… in general. If you’re looking for something, the valley has what you need.”

With that enigmatic statement Dickie slid down the bar to see to another patron, leaving Webby to mull over the meaning of it. Well, she definitely needed this burger. So far, so good.

Near the end of her meal the cozy ambiance of the saloon was interrupted by a backfiring truck outside. Webby watched as Dickie perked up. Perked up even more.

The doors swung open and a burly figure wheeling a dolly with several thick oakwood barrels pushed through.

“Hi hi!” Dickie said. She skipped over and the courier produced a clipboard that she signed off on. They exchanged goodbyes and the courier with the dolly departed, leaving three barrels in the middle of the floor. Dickie chewed at her lower bill as she eyed them.

Webby watched this for a moment before standing up. “You okay?” she said.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. It’s just the weekly keg delivery. Which, you know, great. Except I kind of broke our, uh, wheely, delivery thingy a couple days ago. Midnight racing down the main street. Totally fun, don’t worry about it. But yeah. It got totalled. Uh… not totally sure how to… maybe I can just tap a keg right here and serve from the middle of the floor? That’s got a good house party vibe to it, right?” Dickie looked at Webby, who knew she was utterly unqualified to answer. There were probably fungus on the underside of a forest rock that had more experience with house parties than Webby did.

She walked over and eyed the kegs critically, rapping on them with her knuckles. They rang thickly with their contents. Webby sized up the topmost barrel.

“Let me try,” she said. She wrapped her arms around it, braced her shoulder against it.

“Oh, hey! Whoa!” Dickie said with alarm. She stepped back with wide eyes.

Webby planted her feet, braced herself and tipped the keg over onto her shoulder. There was a breathless moment. Her legs shook. But she adjusted her stance and held steady.

“Where do you want it?” she said, trying to keep the strain from her voice.

For a moment, Dickie stood with her beak agape. “Gosh,” she said. Then she caught herself. “Oh, here! This way! Um… please don’t hurt yourself, I don’t know how I’d ever forgive myself… oh gosh let me get the door for you!”

She groaned, but Webby managed, bearing the weight of the keg. By the time she got back, the other patrons, seemingly roused from their own business by her performance, were helping with the rest of the delivery. Which was great. Webby rubbed her shoulder, unsure if she could have done a repeat trip.

“That was amazing!” Dickie said. “Oh, wow. You’re a lifesaver! How do I repay — oh! Food is on the house!”

“You sure?” Webby said.

“Absolutely! You did this place a solid, so I’m doing you one in return. That way we’re even.” She turned away for a moment to direct the other patrons.

“Oh,” said Webby. That had made her feel better. “Oh, uh, thanks!”

Dickie looked back and beamed at her. “I knew I had a good feeling about you!”

* * *

Several hours later, the evening crowd gave way to the night crowd. Dickie wiped down the bar as the patrons filtered in. She greeted them all by name, inquiring after their health and their lives. How’s the windmill coming? Don’t wander too far down into the mines! Good fishing lately? Dickie had a mental database of everyone that had crossed the threshold of the saloon and she loved filling in the blanks. She loved learning about people.

She was going to love learning about this new one.

Webby had left long ago, eager to get back to the old farmhouse before dark. Dickie had made sure that she left with some good info, like the hours for the general store and the other, more specialized services that the town offered. Not many places had their own blacksmith and apparently Webby had a need for that specific kind of skill.

Interesting person. Very, very interesting.

When the entrance creaked open again, Dickie looked up automatically and she smiled. A short, purple-plumed woman stepped in and nodded at her.

“Violet! Vi! Hey! I was wondering when I’d see you come back!”

“I burned down the toolshed again,” Violet said matter-of-factly. She sat at the far end of the bar and shrugged.

Dickie winced. “Oof. At least you're okay?” 

“Well enough. Though it was suggested by my fathers that I might get some ‘fresh air.’” Violet shrugged again. “The toxins dispersed rapidly. There was no immediate threat to my respiratory system.”

Nodding along, Dickie was hopping from foot to foot. Violet and property damage was always good gossip and on any other night Dickie would be _here for it_ , but she had some real meat to share.

“Okay well I’m glad you’re okay but get this!” she said. “I met our newest resident!”

“Our who?” Violet said with one raised eyebrow.

“The new… people have been talking about it for days now! You haven’t heard?”

“I was consumed by my research.”

“Ack! Violet! I love you but you gotta look up from your work every once in a while!”

Violet made a dismissive sound that suggested she did not, in fact, have to do that. “So who is it?”

“Oh, you should go see her! Very cute but also like, crazy buff? I thought that farm out on the edge of town was too big a project for one person but I could totally see her wrestle a tree stump out of the ground! She carried a full keg like it wasn’t a big deal and she’s like, only up to here!” Dickie put a hand level to her chest.

“Yes, I suppose it’s good that — wait.” Violet focused on Dickie with laser sharpness. “Did you say the farm at the edge of town?”

“Yeah! The one your dad was taking care of.”

Violet brought a hand to the underside of her long, narrow beak. “Hm. I… see… that’s… unexpected.”

Dickie tilted her head. Violet was always a tough woman to read, but this seemed to take her by genuine surprise. Dickie’s mind raced. She mentally flew down the network of people she knew. Violet. Adopted daughter, librarian, museum keeper, friend to Dickie (who was everybody’s friend) and… not many others. Just Dickie and… and…

Her eyes widened. “Vi, are you thinking of your… you know…” Dickie held her hands up and wiggled her fingers. “Your spooky friend?”

Violet shot her a look, cleared her throat and hopped off the stool. “My apologies, I think I might have to take my fresh air outside. For a walk. Thank you for talking with me Dickie. I hope to see you again soon.” She made a rapid exit, the doors swinging behind her.

Dickie leaned forward, elbows on the bar and chin in her hands. She had forgotten about the spooky friend. Her details were fuzzy, but she lived somewhere out there in the direction of the farm. That would be interesting.

Before she could think on it any further, a patron called for her. She cleared her head and smiled. Time would tell.

* * *

Night fell, Webby’s first day in the valley came to a close.

Her bed desperately needed airing out, but she was far too tired for that by the time she had gotten back to the farm. Home. It didn’t feel right to use that word. She wondered if someday it would. What would have to change about the place for it to suit the word? What would have to change in _her_?

Before she had left Snowdrift, Dickie had packed her some additional food. If this kept up, Webby saw hauling more of the saloon goods in her future. In the more immediate future, she’d have breakfast tomorrow. And then work. So much work.


	3. Lay of the Land

### Lay of the Land

There was a rhythm to the work. Webby didn’t find it on the first day. She didn’t find it on the second, either. Mostly she found a great number of muscles in her back and arms and shoulders that she had lost touch with over the years. They were making themselves known now, through aches that had her wincing as she walked up the steps to her porch every evening.

 _I’m out of practice,_ Webby was forced to admit. _Too much sitting in one place._ But she had always been stuck in one place. Stuck at her job, stuck at the mansion. The life that Granny had prepared her for never materialized and it was going to take time for her to adjust to this one. It was still better than going back.

She counted the passing of time by the rocks she broke apart and weeds she pulled out of the dirt, the larger bits of flotsam she fished out of the pond with her shovel. The tools she had been left were functional, but dull. Each time she swung the pickaxe against a stone she felt the collision ring in the bones in her arms like a bell. The hoe had splinters that dug into her palm. The axe was more a bludgeoning device than a chopping one. She had lurked furtively by the blacksmith’s shop where a severe looking woman worked the bellows over a hot forge. The prices she heard were well beyond what she could prudently spend. Some day.

Until that day, she worked.

And worked.

And worked.

Until a week had passed and she stood under the midday sun with sweat streaming down her brow and she leaned heavily on the axe that she just used to pummel a tree and she stared where it fell, the stump splintered from the blunted edge and it lay among ragweed clumps that had sprayed pollen and insects everywhere upon the tree’s fall.

“I’m not getting _anywhere_!” she wailed.

The foliage was just _so much_. Weeds and vines and trees had all grown together into one impenetrable mass. It took so long for Webby to reclaim just a sliver of land. At this point, the most she could grow would be a single scrawny carrot under the shadow of her house. That wasn’t going to work for her.

She tapped the tip of her beak. “I could just burn everything down. Augh. No. No, Webby that’s stupid. You’ll set the whole valley on fire. Besides, there’s woodland creatures in there. I’m sorry, woodland creatures. I’m just frustrated.”

At least she assumed there were woodland creatures. There had been more than a few occasions where she felt like something was watching her from the thicket. Or… somewhere. Most nights.

With a sigh, Webby leaned against her axe. It was slow work, slashing through the overgrowth. She had really assumed she would have gotten to start farming by now.

“Why have you not attempted foraging?”

Webby gave a start, nearly taking off a chunk of her foot with the axe. She whirled and brandished it at the speaker.

Violet Sabrewing stared back, impassive, stoic.

“Oh,” said Webby. “Hello. I’m… Webby?”

She had never really talked to the quiet woman, though Webby had seen her around. Apparently there was a library and/or museum she took care of? Which sounded _amazing_ but there never seemed to be enough time to investigate that.

“I am aware of who you are. Violet Sabrewing. Librarian and museum curator. I thought I might come by and familiarize you with some of our public services.”

“That’s cool,” Webby said. “That’s cool.”

Violet arched an eyebrow.

Webby lowered the axe. “Sorry,” she said. “Just… a bit on edge. Farmer stuff.”

“Understandable. I believe the peanut farmer on the other side of the valley likes to express his frustrations through karaoke night at the Snowdrift. It is quite a performance, I am told.”

Webby cast her eyes skyward. The trees nearly blocked out the view. “Ugh. I wish I could grow peanuts.”

“The forest has had many years to reclaim Rook Hollow. It will take more than a few days to get it back,” said Violet.

“I know you’re right, but — wait, what did you call it?”

“As the town librarian and curator I do know some of the history of this place.”

“It was called Rook Hollow before Granny bought it?” Webby smiled. That was, in her opinion, an _excellent_ name.

“No,” said Violet. “It was called ‘Harold’s Stink Mound,’ named after a particularly fertile pile of soil. Which is why I call it Rook Hollow.”

“Okay, yes, that is way better.” Webby set her axe aside, leaning it against the broken tree stump. She wanted to keep going but she also recognized that at this point she was just flailing.

“Might I suggest a more effective partitioning of your time and labor?” Violet said. “Even if you were to work from sunrise to sunset you can only expect a few hours of that time to be truly productive.”

“I don’t have much else to do here,” Webby said. She rubbed the ache out of her hands. “A bunch of my old books are in storage, otherwise I could… bone up on a few dead languages or refresh my knowledge of Taoist alchemy. It’s, uh, stuff I do to occupy myself, ha ha.”

“I can relate. I myself have several ancient tomes concerning alchemical immortality.”

Webby gawked. No one had ever said ‘I can relate’ to anything she had ever said. “You too?”

“Their practical value is dubious at best but I find it meditative to recite several of the more arcane passages.”

“I could probably use some meditation.”

Violet gestured. “If I might make a suggestion…”

“You mentioned foraging.”

“Indeed. You may find it more fruitful if you were to spend a few hours clearing the land, then leaving your farm to harvest the wild fruits that grow.”

“To… eat?” Webby said.

“To sell. There are several local species of berry that vintners and jam makers outside the valley prize. As well as nuts that form the foundation of a particularly expensive boutique brand of granola bar. Several wild root vegetables, so on.”

Webby’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have any idea how the economy works here.”

“It’s relatively direct. Anything you collect is pooled into a bulk order that gets shipped out of the valley. The price is set by Pelican Town’s council who deposits money into your account in our credit union, the amount reflecting your contribution. And yes, you have an account at the credit union, it was created the moment your name entered the town registry. More information is available at the library. The remainder of funds is set aside for utilities, maintenance and the general welfare. Forage might not be the biggest money-maker available to someone of your property, but it should keep you afloat until you can leverage the agricultural potential of your land.”

“I… see…” A shadow of a plan was already taking shape. A couple hours in the morning clearing land, then off into the woods picking berries like some forest maiden in an idyllic sylvan painting? It was worth a try, at least. “I think I’ll take your suggestion.”

“Excellent,” Violet said. “Do you happen to have an itinerary in mind for these activities? We can make a schedule.”

“I _love_ schedules.”

In a few moments, they were using a stick to trace out blocks of time in the dirt. Webby was giddy. A schedule, physical labor _and_ a reason to explore a forest? Maybe this place really did give you what you need.

When all seemed to her satisfaction, Violet stepped back and nodded firmly. She had taken an interest in the finer details of the plan, but Webby had no real reason to object. “This all appears in order,” Violet said. “I believe by sticking to this you’ll address your needs most efficiently.”

“It looks great, but why are you so insistent that I avoid night foraging?” Webby said. If she were to follow this schedule, she’d be back at the farm each day well before the sun sets.

“Safety,” Violet said immediately.

When she did not elaborate, Webby sought to coax more from her. “What am I trying to be safe… from?”

Violet narrowed her eyes. “Do you have things you don’t like?”

“Oh, sure. Who doesn—”

“Then whatever that is,” Violet said. She stood up quickly from where she had sat in front of their improvised day planner. “You are new here. Wandering around in the woods at night has its dangers. It would be a simple matter to get lost or fall off a cliff.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

“Good. I am glad.” Violet held out her hand and Webby shook it. “If you ever find yourself in need of books, alchemical or otherwise, please feel free to visit me in town. My museum is… lacking. There was an incident. The library is serviceable. I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thanks! Um, and also thanks for your help! I’ll see you around!”

Her new friend seemed nice, Webby thought as Violet headed in the direction of Pelican Town. Very concerned about her well-being. But really, a couple trips into the forest and Webby was sure she’d get a good enough lay of the land to explore either day or night. Mind racing with the possibilities, she stowed her tools to retire to the farmhouse.

Her nerves were a taut string, but she tried to reassure herself. A plan needed to be flexible. Even if she still didn’t fully understand this place and was running out of money but she had a plan. And if that failed she could at least… run away into the woods, live as a vagabond and survive off of whatever she scavenged. That was probably a good alternative. Yes. A good plan and not simple desperation. She should write it down. It’s a plan when you write it down. Just the thought made her feel better.

She whirled upon the fallow field. “You think you’ve won, but just you wait!” she shouted at the thicket. “Webby Vanderquack does not buckle under pressure! She thrives on it! In fact, she eats it! For breakfast!”

The forest answered with rustling leaves and the chirp of crickets. Somewhere in the depths, a frog.

“Yeah, and also for dinner. Which. Is now.” Webby felt herself flagging. She really hoped Violet was out of hearing range. “So… so back off!”

* * *

The thing about pressure, Lena decided as she eyed her anvil and forge, is that if you knew what you were doing, you didn’t need to use much of it. With a little heat and the right tools, even the lightest pressure can cause nearly anything to buckle.

Her metalworking area was nothing elaborate. Not like the smith in town. There was magic in metal but it wasn’t really her wheelhouse. She had a modest boulder for an anvil, set in front of a furnace. Along with some flux, a bucket of water, a handful of tools and a mold kit, she had all she needed for creating talismans and bracelets and rings.

A bead of sweat formed and fell from the tip of her beak and soaked into the forge. She pulled the long loose-fitting tunic she wore for sweltering work up and dabbed at her face. The stone furnace before her gave off a low, angry red glow that cast trembling, diffuse shadows across her workshop. She kept her back to them and focused, bent over her work.

With some heat and pressure she soon had several bands of silver bent around a wooden cylinder. Flux to solder them together. More heat and pressure and a hammer to flatten them out. Soon the rasping of a file filled the air as she shaved away the dross collecting over the metal until it gleamed in the forge light.

Lena used a pair of tongs to hold it up to the open window and the cool night air. The polished silver bracelet gleamed in the moonlight with a light that seemed to chase away the shadows.

Silver for protection.

At least, that’s what she had read. “Well,” Lena said. “It couldn’t hurt.”

The thing about witchcraft was that there was a _lot_ of things about witchcraft. It was one thing to be able to use magic but it was another thing entirely to understand the underlying principles, and that was the thing, really. The important thing, the main thing and the thing that, for a long time, Lena did not have.

A lot of things, witchcraft.

And she had to learn it all on her own. There was no one she knew worth learning from. So she had started at square one and worked her way up. Herbs and gems and metal. Potions and teas and poisons and antidotes. Cauldron stuff.

The valley was _perfect_ for this. Every plant, gemstone and mineral that was an ingredient in her scavenged spell books was just… here. 

So it made sense to settle down in the abandoned tower on the very edge of town, so far from the village center that there was nothing out here except trees and ruins. It helped that Starduck was this weird secret that the outside world seemed to not know about. The less people were aware of Lena’s existence, the better.

Which just left the residence themselves. They were… nice. Friendly. If you were into that sort of thing, which Lena wasn’t. Once, long ago, she walked through the center of town. She was young and naive. People _waved_ at her. It was horrible. All in all she was better off on her own. Maybe there were a few exceptions. Expeditions into town to sell the occasional medicinal potion or magical curiosity. Then there was Violet. Who was… an acquaintance. They both preferred their solitude and found a certain camaraderie in that. A lonely camaraderie, but nonetheless, it helped to have at least one set of eyes in town.

That was how Lena had learned about someone moving into Rook’s Hollow.

She had always liked the place. It had a power of its own. Like her tower. It was… witch stuff. Stuff about borderlands. The threshold of places, not quite the wilderness, not quite civilization. And the Hollow had a lot of that going on. And now some farmer was going to turn it all into corn.

Well. That was none of Lena’s business. Corn was fine. Corn was nice. She had a recipe for cornbread.

She stood up and massaged the ache in her back. She didn’t know how the smith did it, working over a forge like that. She doused the furnace and walked out to her garden. She never did all that much metalwork to begin with, too expensive. Besides it turned out she had a knack for herbs. Who knew?

Bracing herself against the tower wall, Lena watched the sky darkening and the moon rising. She kept her herb gathering to dusk or twilight. The borderlands between night and day. Witch stuff.

A drifting cloud sliced through the moon. A day on the verge of night.

“No rest for the me,” she said to herself. She had, over the course of the day, maybe spoken ten words. Definitely not more than twenty. Sometimes she wondered if that would be a problem. Like maybe she’d forget how to speak if she didn’t do it enough times. On the other hand speaking to herself too much probably wasn’t a good sign? There was a balance there. And she had time to find it.

Lots of time.

Lena returned to her tower, gathered up her basket and a well-used knife, and stepped out into the forest.

* * *

The ocean’s gentle waves caught the sunlight and lapped against the old pier, its planks creaking under Webby’s feet.

“Thanks again!” she said as she closed the door on the fish shop. The door bounced back as it closed on the fishing rod that she draped over her shoulder.

“Oops,” said Webby. She pulled the rod free as the shopkeeper looked on. “Haha, under control!” Webby said, and pulled the door fully shut.

She marched back to the beach. Farming! She thought she’d only do farming! She was too focused on that one thing. The moment Violet had suggested something _other_ than farming the possibilities unfolded before Webby. It turned out there was _food_ in the _water!_

Her second week in the valley and Violet’s schedule was paying off. Literally. Webby toiled on the farm in the mornings and spent the midday exploring and picking up anything that looked edible. The land was so fertile that pretty much everything was. It wasn’t going to make her rich, but after the first few payments trickled in, she had enough so that she wasn’t mooching off of Dickie’s kindness. There were only so many heavy things she could carry around in the saloon.

And the farm was coming along. It was still mostly a mess but Webby could see the end of it. Soon she’ll have cleared away enough to grow a small amount of crop. It would be fun! Probably. Until then, she had a bag for berries and nuts, a completely separate bag for fish because gross, and hours of daylight ahead of her.

Webby walked through town, trading greetings. She was getting to know people. In a cursory sort of way. But for now she had other priorities.

The river meandered through the forest that bordered Rook Hollow and Webby followed it, picking through the bushes and tree branches as she did. She was not, she had to admit, a fisher by nature. At least, not _this_ kind of fisher. The shopkeeper had shook his head when she asked him about his selection of harpoons.

And after a pleasant hour spent crashing through the bushes and getting her fingers sticky and purple from plucking fruits stained with juices, Webby came upon a bend in the river sheltered by a looming willow tree that arched overhead. Her instincts told her _here_.

She bent over the river bank and rinsed off her hands. Beyond the shadow of the willow tree, sunlight dazzled as it danced on the water, leaving spots in Webby’s eyes when she looked away. Under the cool shade she rested and prepared her fishing rod. When she cast her line it seemed like the only sound in the world was the soft noise of the fishing bob plunging into the clear river water.

Buoyed in the gentle currents, the bob moved hypnotically. The leaves rustled overhead. A soft wind moved through Webby’s hair and stirred her ponytail. Webby shifted where she sat, relaxing every muscle except the ones holding her line.

It was funny, she reflected. There was a time when she would have found this stillness and solitude stifling. She had always wanted to be close to other people. Back in the mansion, when she could only look past the walls to the lights of Duckburg below, she’d imagine it. Granny was Granny, which meant she cared but in a distant sort of way. Mister McDuck was… well… not having any of that whatsoever, no matter how willing Webby was to hang onto every word he could have spoken, but never did. She would have given anything for a little more noise. A little more excitement.

She wondered what had changed between the girl she was then and who she was now. It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting. And Webby found herself at peace, willing to wait as well. And the fishing bob bobbed and the river moved gently against the earth and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing over her eyes like stage curtains stirring as a crew moved to change the scenery and unveil the next act.

And Webby fell asleep.

The knowing of it only crossed her mind after the fact. She snapped awake, the rough bark of the willow tree digging into her back. She blinked and automatically wiped at the drool collecting in the corner of her beak. The rod had fallen from her hands and lay in the grass. The lure hung from the line, drifting downstream. Webby shook her head clear and reeled her line in.

The sun was low, night would be on her soon. _This_ was why she preferred harpoon fishing. Less risk of drifting off for half the day. She got up and stretched. There was no helping it. She _had_ run herself ragged the last couple of weeks. It was probably okay to let herself off the hook just this one time.

Collecting her gear, double-checking that she had left nothing behind, Webby shook the sleep from her legs and dove back into the forest.

Violet’s words came back to her and she picked her way back to the farmhouse with care. If she snapped her leg over a piece of tall root, she doubted she’d be able to get any help. Night creatures were stirring in the dark undergrowth, the chirp of rodents, the soft call of owls and the squeak of bats was already filling the air. The forest was so _alive_ , and that was just on her farm. Out here the forest practically trembled with life. Lightning bugs drifted lazily around tree trunks and toads emerged from the riverbanks. Tree branches swatted at her face.

Webby was reasonably confident in her ability to navigate the forest. Granny’s survivalist training hadn’t been for nothing. Still, part of being able to navigate the forest was to never overestimate one’s self. She stopped and checked her progress constantly. She kept the river to one side of her and moved upstream. That would take her to the town’s edge and she could find herself back to the farmhouse easily from there.

Though she was making progress, she couldn’t help but shiver. Night would fall fast.

Moving gingerly, she was able to catch herself when her foot dipped over thin air where she had expected firm ground. She had forgotten there was a tributary that fed into the river. It had a bridge but she had missed it and nearly tumbled into the riverbed. The ground sloped away before her into a silt-covered flat sprinkled with smooth pebbles and a broad, shallow brook of running water

She stepped down over the edge with care and padded across the soft silt. About halfway across, when she was about to wade through the brook, she realized she was not alone.

The trees on either side framed the twilight sky overhead, a dark blue that shifted into purple and a brilliant pink close to the horizon that silhouetted the narrow wooden bridge that Webby had missed. And standing in front of that bridge, wreathed in lightning bugs and purple light, was…

It took a moment for Webby’s eyes to adjust. 

She saw a tall figure staring back at her. A woman in a loose-fitting black dress and a coarse overshirt. With one hand holding the fabric of the dress up she stood ankle-deep in the tributary. Her other arm was crooked at the elbow to hold a woven basket full of mushrooms and plants. She had stopped midway through stooping over a cluster of mushrooms growing from a tree trunk that had fallen into the stream. Her hair was straight and long and streaked with a color Webby could not make out in the low light and it framed her eyes that swirled with color. Streaks of gold and purple intermingling. And there was a sharpness to her features, a set to her beak that seemed to suggest a frown and a narrowing of her eyes like a challenge.

Or some kind of unbendable pride. Or sternness. Webby could ascribe any number of words to the expression on the stranger’s face but above all else it was captivating. She stood against the twilight and the horizon like she belonged there, like the Colossus of Rhodes or Statue of Liberty or some other monument that defined the land as much as the land defined it and it made Webby feel like an intruder. The stranger stood, with a questioning look, impatient frown and a tense set in her shoulders that caused the straps of her dress to slide into the crook of her neck and Webby was _still staring_ and she was almost but not quite sure that her mouth was hanging open.

“You need something?” the stranger said. She arched an eyebrow.

“Uh…” Webby said.


	4. Entanglements

### Entanglements

A perk of foraging by twilight was that there was less chance of getting gawked at by the yokels, which, well, that was happening right now so it wasn’t a perfect system.

A long, awkward moment passed for Lena while her visitor just stood there, beak all open. She just couldn’t put a name to the face; she hadn’t gotten to any great length to know every person in the valley. This one seemed harmless enough. Bit quiet. Not that that was a bad thing. Staring problem.

Dismissing the intruder, Lena turned to the fallen log that had gotten her attention. The mushrooms sprouting from it were just what she was looking for. From the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger still standing there.

“Whatever,” she said under her breath. Her knife was worn and pitted and its best days far behind it but it had its uses when she was out foraging. Lena jammed it under the peeling bark at the base of the mushroom and pried at the area around the fungus.

“Uh,” said the stranger. “Looking for mushrooms?”

“What tipped you off?” Lena said. She worked the dull blade into the rotted wood. “Rotbeak is a poisonous mushroom.” If she was going to have an audience then she was going to inflict them with the knowledge she had to acquire. “You can identify it by —”

“The yellow cap that has cracks in it!” the stranger said. She seemed to regain some control over her faculties. Lena noted how her eyes lit up. “It looks like a bill that’s falling apart!”

“Right,” said Lena. Most people in the valley knew enough to stay away from the stuff.

“So… are you making poison?”

“What? No. I’m not interested in the caps. I want the roots.” She dug deeper into the wood.

“Mushrooms don’t have roots,” her companion said automatically. “They have mycelium.”

“Great,” Lena said and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the… mywhatever is good for cramps and arthritis and other aches. Put it in a tea and it numbs pain. But you have to boil it in a copper container to neutralize the toxins. Otherwise you blister from the inside out.”

“Ew.”

“Looks pretty gnarly,” Lena said, who had a spell book full of luridly detailed illustrations. She jammed the blade as far as it could go and wiggled the handle until she could feel the wood working itself apart. That was what usually happened. This time the blade snapped in half with a brittle sound.

Lena hissed. “Dammit,” she said. Then she heard footsteps behind her in the wet silt.

“Here! Use mine! I’m Webby!”

Lena leaned away at the sudden approach.

“You’re… what?”

“That’s my name. Webby.”

Lena looked down at… Webby. She hadn’t really given her a first look. Lena didn’t _mean_ to cultivate an antisocial reputation. She just found that it agreed with her.

So having someone approach her with a blade wasn’t a great situation. Webby’s dagger gleamed with polish in the fading light. Lena looked at Webby, looked at the dagger, then took it by the handle. Webby radiated nothing but earnest goodwill like a second sun. Lena studied the weapon, smoothed down her expression then smiled crookedly.

“Okay. So. What’s a well-armed girl like you doing out on a night like this?” she said.

“Oh, uh, I mean I always — you had one too!” Webby said.

“My knife was a tool. This? This is a weapon.” Lena pried the bark off the tree with ease and the mushrooms came with it. She stepped out of the water and let go of her dress so she could cut off the caps. Once finished she put what was left over into a sealed canvas bag and dropped it into her basket. “Perfect.”

She offered the dagger back to Webby and nodded at the forest beyond. “You gonna be okay heading back to town?”

“Oh, I’m not actually —”

“Only I just filled this ditch with broken metal and poison mushrooms. So. You know. Watch your step.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine!”

“Good.”

Webby’s mouth worked as if she had more to say, but Lena had no intention of sticking around. Before Webby could get out another word, Lena stepped back under the dark shade of the forest, folded herself up into the shadows and slipped away.

By the time she reached her tower, Lena had already pushed the encounter out of her mind.

* * *

Morning in the Snowdrift was a slow affair. Mornings in the valley were for work, not warming a barstool. Still, there were patrons. They were few and required little more than coffee. Dickie could do coffee in her sleep. Which she often did. While standing in front of the cooking range. Dickie was many things, a morning person was not one of them.

This particular morning was different. Once she determined her services weren’t immediately in need, she stepped out from behind the bar to a booth that was out of the morning sunlight.

She slid into the seat opposite of Violet. Between them, spread out on the table, were an array of tiny plates with tiny pastries.

Violet looked up at her with a level expression and a tiny fork in one hand. Dickie vibrated in her seat.

“Well?” she said.

“The apple pie is dry. I recommend more butter.”

Dickie winced.

“The cobbler is fine,” Violet went on. “As is the scone, although I do question your choice of flavor. Of all the things that grow in this place, what led you to go with sweet potato?”

“We have a lot?”

“Mm. I suppose it is at least… interesting.”

Interesting was good, Dickie thought. She loved being interesting. “What about the cinnamon roll?” she said, eyes flicking down to the food in question.

“I’m afraid I’m not an objective judge of cinnamon rolls,” Violet said.

“What? What does that mean? I just need to know if it’s well made.”

Violet looked at her with a deadpan expression. “It’s a cinnamon roll.”

“Okay, _yeah_ , but—”

The dawn’s light flooded the gloom of the Snowdrift Saloon as someone _kicked_ the actual door in. Like this was a movie or something. If Gigi were here she’d have them dragged to the back, cleaning dishes for a week.

“Di— oh, where are you?” Webby stepped into the bar and whipped her head around. When her eyes landed on Dickie, half standing from the booth, she made an immediate beeline.

“There you are! I— oh, good morning Violet.”

“Webbigail,” Violet said with a nod.

Webby stopped and took stock of the scene in front of her. “Am I interrupting breakfast? A tiny breakfast?”

“Taste test!” Dickie said. She settled back in and motioned at Webby who slid in next to Violet. “You can join us. I need someone for the cinnamon roll. Violet is having a tautological crisis over it which sucks because she’s usually so blunt and direct like all the time which makes her the perfect judge except for this one teen tiny exception!” Dickie took a breath.

Webby grabbed a spare fork and stuck it into the roll. Dickie watched expectantly as Webby chewed. 

“Oh! Flaky! I always like my cinnamon rolls with lots of icing though.”

“Okay, okay, I can do that,” Dickie said.

“Why the taste test?”

“I’m expanding the menu!”

“You’re going to serve desserts at a bar?”

Dickie gave a perfunctory wave of her hand. “I always thought of this place as more of a diner than a bar,” she said.

“Your grandmother definitely intended this to be a bar,” Violet said.

“Well, she should be here bartending then!”

“Does she often leave you in charge?” Webby said.

“Gigi likes to travel,” said Dickie. “But she comes by a lot. She’s, like, a total pro at this place.”

“Okay well, that’s real nice and ooh do I smell sweet potato — wait!” Webby shut her eyes and breathed in deep. “I’m getting off track. Why did nobody tell me about the strange beaut — uh, the strange woman with the glowing eyes wandering the forest night as if she were a wood nymph from legend? Or is she an actual wood nymph? I didn’t check to see if she cast a reflection in the babbling brook. Actually that’s a vampire thing right? Well? What?”

Dickie traded a look with Violet.

“Oh ho ho no,” Webby said. “I know that look. That’s the look people get before I tell them that I’m not crazy. Well I’m not crazy! This is a thing that actually happened. After I fell asleep next to a river.”

“It’s hardly a secret,” Violet said. “You just ran into Lena.”

“Oh,” said Webby. She looked expectantly at Violet. Violet prodded one of the plates.

“Is this cornbread?” she said.

“Violet!” Webby said, practically exploding.

“Webbigail,” Violet said calmly. She put down her fork and turned to Webby.

“I ran into Lena,” Webby offered. “Lena _who_? Lena the town… doctor? Lena who fixes cars? Lena the juggler with a heart of gold on the run from mercenaries sent to track her down after she ruined the birthday party of their mob boss’s favorite daughter?”

“None of the above. She simply lives in the forest.” said Violet. “I had attempted to keep you two separate. She values her privacy.”

“ _She’s_ why you told me to keep out of the woods at night?”

“As I said, she values her privacy. I’d really rather not discuss this. I don’t feel I’m at liberty to talk about her when she’s not even in the room.”

“No, yeah, of course!” Webby said. She drummed the top of the table with her fingers. “I’ll just not think about the beautiful, proud, diaphanous figure who stood shimmering against the moon like a vision in a sylvan glen. No problem.” She stood up abruptly. “Well! Gotta go! Thanks for the talk and the desserts I’m sure they’ll be a hit bye!”

She hopped off the seat and barrelled through the doors. They swung on squeaky hinges.

“I’ve got to oil those,” said Dickie. She turned to Violet. “So not to tell you your business, but if you thought that whole thing you did was going to discourage her —”

* * *

“Bahahahahaha!” Lena doubled over and put her hands on a wood post as she laughed at Violet on the other side of her garden fence.

“I hardly see the comedy in this,” Violet said with a sniff.

“Oh come on, Vi! I mean ‘I don’t feel I’m at liberty to —’ really? If I didn’t know you better I’d assume you were trying some kind of reverse psychology thing on this weirdo! What’d you think would happen after saying something like that? Of course you made her curious!”

Dickie had said as much. It had troubled Violet all morning as she prepared the books Lena had requested from the library. Walking this delivery over to the hermit a couple times a week was usually the only chance Violet and Lena talked. It seemed like a meager premise to build a friendship on, but neither of them needed much more.

“I admit, the precautions I had taken up to this point may have led to some unforeseen consequences,” Violet said.

Lena rolled her eyes as she draped her arms over the fence. “They’re only unforeseen for someone who doesn’t know how people work. Really. Micromanaging her schedule just so we’d avoid each other? Come on.”

“You said you like it when people keep their distance!” More than anything else, Violet was someone who liked to know where she stood with other people. And that often meant taking them literally at everything they said. Trying to divine some hidden meaning or intention was far too exhausting to bother with. That’s why she liked books. Sure there would be metaphors or subtexts but at least the words were _there_ to be _read_.

“Look Vi, I just don’t like the gawkers in town. Besides, if she’s the rube who bought that farm, then we’re kind of neighbors. You know. Distant neighbors. My favorite kind.”

“Then this appears to have been for nothing.” Violet said.

“Ah, you were looking out for me, which I appreciate. I wouldn’t worry about it. She’ll lose interest. We’ll look back at this and laugh. I guess I already did that. We’ll look back at this, anyway.”

“She strikes me as someone who… takes an interest,” said Violet. “One time, she came to the library and I was reshelving and she watched and asked actual questions about the catalog system and seemed genuinely interested in my answers.”

“Yikes, I’d think you’d be stoked about that.”

“I’m ecstatic, obviously,” said Violet.

“Well,” Lena gestured at herself. “I’m no library catalog.”

“No indeed,” said Violet. She grinned and gave Lena a sly look. “You’re a ‘beautiful, proud, diaphanous figure who stood shimmering against the moon like a vision in a sylvan glen.’”

Lena blinked rapidly and tilted her head to one side. “Did she actually say that?”

“I have an excellent memory. Those were her exact words, yes.”

“I wasn’t! I didn’t… I wasn’t like that!” Lena stood up and waved her hands. “I was standing ankle deep in gross dirt water trying to pry poison mushrooms out of a dead tree without cutting myself with my rusty knife! Which finally broke so I’ll need to go into town soon. And… and… the moon was barely up! It was, like, seven o’clock!”

“I’ve never seen you blush.” Violet silently marveled. It was small, but it was there.

Lena whipped around at her with gritted teeth. “Can it Vi! This is a natural reaction! People don’t… say that stuff about me. I’m not used to it. Whoever this joker is has got way more imagination than is good for her!”

“Her name is —”

“I don’t even care! You know what? Subject changed! It’s not like you to gossip.”

“I take as much interest in the interpersonal connections as anyone else,” said Violet.

“Blah blah. You got my books or not?”

They exchanged books over idle chatter. It wasn’t long before Lena brought out tea and they took drinks over a tea set balanced on a fence post between them. She might not be the most personable, but Violet found that Lena always meant well. When she decided it was worth the effort at least. Most people didn’t have the patience or the healthy respect for boundaries that would have let them stick around long enough to find that out.

Webbigail… probably needed to work on the boundaries thing but she was enthusiastic in a way that Violet appreciated. You needed to bring a lot of enthusiasm to the table to get worked up about a library catalog. It would be nice, in Violet’s estimation, if Lena could make a new friend. Perhaps it was best to let the chips fall where they may.

* * *

_“Watch how they move. An amateur will make it obvious but even a practiced spy can give away where they’ve hid a concealed weapon. Noticing nervous tics or a shift in stance can make the difference between life or death. Now, suppose you’re meeting an agent who is unfamiliar to you during the course of an undercover operation and you suspect they’ve been compromised. I will refer to my instructions on counter-espionage…”_

Webby opened her eyes. From her bed she stared up at the rafters of the farmhouse and sighed. She could recall perfectly all of Granny’s instructions, but nowhere in her lessons had she taught Webby how to get to know someone who she just… wanted to know more about. Not outside of interrogation scenarios, anyway.

Going up to someone and saying “Hi I’m Webby!” was a flip of the coin, and she didn’t want to flip a coin here. Webby wasn’t sure… what she wanted to do here. Except see this person, this Lena, again. Any thoughts beyond that got slippery and hard to pin down. Like a fistful of spaghetti. It was all so confusing and murky and she hated that feeling. But also she liked it? It was exciting, it was —

“Gah!” She sat up and clapped both hands against her cheeks as if to shake herself from a daze. “This is too much to think about!”

She hopped off her bed and stomped outside into the evening light, vaulting down the steps onto the dusty field. A figure stood in the center of a clearing she had made, and when she saw it, she ran up to it.

“If I leave now my chances of seeing Lena again is roughly 75%!” she said, and high-fived the figure’s outstretched arm. It swayed to one side and Webby lunged to grab it and fix it back into place, driving the stake holding it up into the dry soil with a puff of dirt.

“Sorry,” she told her scarecrow. “I’m just excited.” She adjusted the pink bow attached to its burlap sack head. The bow fell off and fluttered to the ground.

It might have been a bit premature, but she had decided to put up a scarecrow even before she had properly sown any seeds. It would have to happen anyway. Plus it gave her something to talk to.

“Wish me luck!” she said. She grabbed her foraging bags, gave the scarecrow a salute, and pushed into the overgrowth.

* * *

It was as she was kneeling in front of an infestation of mint, collecting its leaves with her broken knife, when Lena next saw the new girl.

Or heard, rather, the sound of thrashing in the thicket on the other side of the forested knoll.

Settling back into the bed of mint, Lena listened.

“Next time I’m bringing my machete,” she overheard, and with that she stood up, brushed at her dress, wrapped her broken dagger in gauze and put it into the bag slung over her shoulder. She picked her way to the voice.

And there, in a clearing lit by the setting sun, was that strange woman, all tangled up in moonflower vines that were draped over a tree branch. White flowers showered petals as she struggled.

Lena watched, unnoticed, at the edge of the clearing. It was kind of cute. She was so short! But full of energy. It was like watching an angry bunny trapped in a spider web. A giant spider web. Or a tiny bunny. Whatever, Lena decided. It was like something she never really saw before and she felt like she could watch for a while longer, but it would be mean to leave it like this.

“You need a hand with that?” she said. She stepped out of the shadows, her hands by her side.

There was silence. They stared at each other.

“Hi,” the woman said automatically. “I’m —”

“Webby,” Lena said. “I remember.”

“I was going to say I’m stuck,” said Webby, “but yeah!”

Lena smiled wryly. “I noticed. You really should be careful in the forest. Especially at this time of day.”

“Are there carnivorous plants?” Webby said. “Will I get eaten?”

“No. But you don’t need plants to eat you to make you regret wandering. Get a nasty rash and you’ll envy the dead.”

Webby’s beak hung open. “Neat,” she said.

“If you’re into that,” Lena said with a shrug. She circled Webby, studying the moonflower vines. She reached out and tugged a tendril experimentally. The tree creaked overhead and leaves swayed.

“I have a knife,” Webby said. “Uh. Several knives. If you can reach my bag —”

“Yeah no, I’m not hacking this plant apart just because you got yourself stuck in it,” Lena said. “Try to keep still.”

She found what she was looking for and pulled two loops apart. This allowed webby to get one foot on the ground. With a little more effort, she hopped out of the rest of the entanglement.

“Huh. Thanks!” she said.

“Sure,” Lena said. “Be more careful next time.” She gave Webby a half-hearted wave.

“Wait!” Webby called out behind her. “Did you want to talk or —”

“Nope. Good _night_.”

“Oh! Uh… good night!”

* * *

“She wished me a good night!” Webby said.

The scarecrow, as it turned out, was an amazing listener. Not much for conversation, but Webby was more than happy to supply both sides of one.

“Absolutely, it’s amazing progress!” she said. “I thought I was doing great when she remembered my name but this was just the cherry on top! Didn’t get much forage, I’ll have to fix that. Otherwise, a great night!”

* * *

It went on like that for several nights. 

Lena liked to think that she knew her way around her — the — forest. And Webby did nothing to suggest she was facing any competition on that front. Lena had to fish her out of one too many trees like a stray cat for that to be the case.

“But that’s where the _good_ apples are,” Webby said on one particular occasion.

“Twenty feet up in the air? Also? Not in season.” Lena shook the leaves out of her hair. A splash of color caught her eye. A strip of pink dangling from a low branch. Lena looked at it

“The thinner atmosphere stimulates growth and they ripen sooner!”

“That’s definitely not how it works.” Lena flicked the pink ribbon and Webby caught it out of the air, tying her ponytail back in place.

It was stuff like that. She _seemed_ able to take care of herself, but she had just the right blend of book knowledge and odd notions that got her into trouble. Lena stuck around long enough to clear up whatever misconception had landed her in trouble and then immediately left. This girl had “project” written all over her and Lena was in no mood to take on a project. Not if it couldn’t be brewed in a cauldron. That road led only to disaster.

Even if she was… entertaining.

_Careful there._

Lena snapped her head up. She grabbed the bag that Webby had dropped. Harvested wild flowers and herbs and nuts settled inside.

“So, since you’re here…” Webby said.

“Gotta go, I think my bees are having a nightmare,” Lena said. She walked past Webby, dropped the bag into her lap and walked away.

_Don’t get involved, Lena. It’s never worth getting involved._


	5. Moonbow

### Moonbow

“I’m making really good progress!” Webby told her scarecrow. “I think she smiled a little after she untangled me from my fishing line! Like, a real smile not a sarcastic one. It was small but it was there!”

Smile aside, Webby had another reason to be excited. Aside from being an excellent listener, her scarecrow would soon be a productive member of her farm. It had taken longer than she would have liked, this _was_ peak planting season — probably — but it had happened. She had cleared out a respectable plot of land and would be sowing seeds soon. It was exciting!

But it felt like the end of something. She wasn’t fooling anyone. Certainly not the scarecrow, whose name she decided was Murder of Crows. She had hoped to use this time to become friends with Lena but mostly she had achieved a kind of wary tolerance. It was throwing off her annotated timeline, which was four sheets of graph paper taped up to the wall, next to a calendar and hanging over the tiny television that received one weather channel, one cooking channel, and some public access show that seemed to be part fortune telling and part cheesy movie marathons that Webby couldn’t make heads or tails of.

There’d be less excuses and less time to venture into the woods and meet this mystery woman once Webby had a proper farm to tend to. She had been counting the days until now and with the reality of it looming there was a malaise.

But time marched on all the same. This was make or break, do or die. No time for moping or giving up. She was going to explore the secrets of the forest now more than ever.

* * *

Many hours later, Webby trudged wearily over roots and stones and grasping vines. The forest kept its secrets.

She was an explorer. In theory. Maybe she didn’t have the chance for a lot of practice but it wasn’t like north stopped being north. Everything else just kind of falls in place after that.

So really, there was no rational explanation for how lost she was. The forest loomed over her, and its shadows lengthened and shifted, and without warning or fanfare, she had found herself in an unfamiliar place. The path had slipped out from under her feet. 

There was the whisper that grew to a roar that suggested she was near the sea, but the trees were thicker here and the undergrowth nastier. These weren’t the hedgerows of the farm, but wild plants that clung tenaciously to life and covered itself with thorns and spines and stinging nettles that caught at her clothes and thick gloves. She was going to be shaking this stuff off herself all night. Did they pay less if she gave them turnips covered in nettles? It was probably more fiber, so really…

Webby stumbled on an exposed root. Night falling, visibility, too. She had never intended to be out this late. Her bags were full and swung heavily over her shoulder.

And even now she still felt disappointed that she hadn’t run into Lena. And it was silly. She knew that. She just… really wanted to. Life with Granny had prepared her to dropkick minotaurs, not think too deeply about her emotional state. So when she attempted to articulate her desire to see Lena, she could only go so far.

Which was why Webby was out here in the darkness wrestling with some ineffable impulse instead of in her farmhouse, sleeping. And while she might not have learned mindfulness from Granny, she had learned survivalism and could recognize the early signs of exhaustion. The clammy skin, the light-headedness. She had a light meal back in Snowdrift and little else today. Her forage of daffodils and wild turnips would only go so far and dehydration was an issue judging by her headache and was she really so excited to go into the woods that she hadn’t provisioned herself properly? Granny would be so disappointed right now.

She had to re-orient herself, find some stars and chart a course. The thick canopy of leaves blocked her view.

Webby uncoiled a length of rope, which she made a habit of carrying around in case she had to lash her scavenging out of the reach of bears. She didn’t know if there were bears here, or if they were interested in large quantities of wild green onions, but it never hurt to assume that at any moment she may have to fight one.

Taking a breath, Webby looped the rope around a sturdy looking branch, found footholds in the rough bark, and ascended on shaky legs.

* * *

Starduck Valley was broad and flat with dramatic slopes carved out by erosion. On either side were mountains with gullies that fed water from the backcountry into the river basin. Where the river drained into the sea, the land sloped gently into broad beaches in stark contrast to the cliffs upland where the forests dominated.

There in the granite cliffs were a honeycomb of caves and notches as ocean waves wore away the softer limestone. Much of it was hidden from view most of the time and dangerous to explore. The ebb and flow of ocean currents as water slipped into the caves were unpredictable, and could suck in divers and smash boats to splinters.

Precious few had reason to come to the cliffs, which was reason enough for Lena to be here. She sat cross-legged at the cliff’s edge and listened to the roar of the waves below. With the tide rushing in, the waters poured into blowholes and geysered upwards into great sprays of mist. The moon, high overhead, pulled the tide with it. Each waterspout scattered its light into a silvery moonbow that cut through the night sky.

Well. It wasn’t a Featherweights show, but it had its own appeal.

Her back up against a tree, her arms draped over roots protruding over the cliff face, Lena breathed in the sea spray, exhaled, and felt energized in the midnight air. Sometimes she missed the outside world. Living in the valley was like being inside a secret. Lena very much needed to be a secret, but sometimes she remembered being young and wanting to, you know, party. Jump into a mosh pit and come out with bruises. Maybe she wasn’t that kid anymore — she certainly never imagined she’d become the type to sit around and watch _nature_ — but it would be nice to find out for sure except Pelican Town was not exactly the place for parties. The least amount of happening happened here. That was the whole point.

Still…

Lena’s life was structured around weekly chores and it had been for years but it was still hard. Which was why it was so odd that she had managed to lap herself lately. She had collected a surplus of herbs lately, leaving very little for her to do tonight. These last few weeks she had been going out into the forest more. No... no particular reason.

Her potions were brewed and her leaves were drying and her animals settled into their homes, happy. Or happy as animals understand it.

It left her with free time. Time to sit back and enjoy existing

The waves crashed and the sea sprayed and the moon was a bright coin in the sky.

“Oh no,” Lena said aloud. “I’m boring.” It was an awful thing to find out about one’s self.

Lena stood up. She needed busywork, something back at the tower that could occupy her and drown out any more personal epiphanies.

The sound of the waves receded behind her. The fullness of the moon cast the forest in a banded array of silver and black like bleached bones protruding from tar and Lena moved through the fantastic maze of it with the ease of a shadow. Until she was stopped when she came upon a heavy burlap sack. It was one that she recognized instantly. It hung, full and heavy, from the branch of a tree.

It swung slowly in the breeze. Lena rolled her eyes, reached up with both hands and stilled it.

“Webby? You out here?” she said, and turned in place, peering into shadows. “You, uh, forget something? Your stuff is...” Her voice trailed off as she was met with no reply. A moment passed. Then Lena closed her eyes, stood still, and reached out with a sense beyond the usual five. _Above_ it told her. Lena looked up into the tree.

“Oh,” Lena felt herself relax. “I swear you were a cat in a past life. You okay?”

Lena approached the trunk of the tree. Webby was wedged in the crook of a thick branch, curled up. She was breathing. She was _shivering_. Lena frowned.

“Pink?”

* * *

Webby wasn’t quite sure what had happened. She was just going to go up a tree. While dehydrated and exhausted after several weeks of non-stop work. And also she had been lost and tired? That seemed important. So really it was probably the most natural thing in the world to just… take a nap out in the cold. Up in the cold. Because she felt so worn out she wasn’t even aware it _was_ cold. And how long had that been a thing? Working in the field and foraging in the forest, hours into days and sleeping in a strange house after transplanting her entire life.

Wow. If she were anyone else that would be a recipe for a fatigue-based whole body shutdown. Good thing she had been raised to be made of sterner stuff.

Also she was moving but she was pretty sure her legs weren’t working and she should be back up in that tree. And maybe sleeping in a tree wasn’t the hottest idea? Maybe.

It turned out there were lots of maybes when your brain felt sluggish and thick like cold stew.

Maybe she could open her eyes and find out what that whole situation was about.

Or maybe she won’t. She felt movement, and the cold air -- cold _something_ , and yet she felt so.

Safe. Like the cold around her radiated concern for her well-being.

_Pink?_

And that couldn’t be right because that sounded like —

“Lena?”

Webby shot upright in her bed. She was surrounded on all sides by the familiar walls of the farmhouse. Light streamed in from the windows. Before her was the front door, bolted and locked from the inside. Webby boggled at that, but her mind was too fuzzy to deal with any of this.

She held her hand up against the morning light streaming through her window. It was too much for her eyes, which felt like they were going to get pushed out of their sockets. And her body felt clammy and she shivered in the brisk spring air.

Last night was a smear in her memory and a dark throb in the back of her skull. She might have climbed a tree? She definitely _headbutted_ a tree at some point. It’s the only explanation for why she feels like something in her brain was punishing her. And then she heard Lena’s voice.

Her vision swam as she scanned the empty farmhouse.

She was still in her work clothes. Loose clods of dirt collected in the wrinkles of her bed sheets. She swept at them to little effect.

Webby made a disapproving noise and felt the scratchiness in her voice.

Tree-slumber had left her body aching and she had to move with care as she swung her feet to the floor. Her ankle collide with something hard and there was the clink of porcelain.

When she looked down she saw a tea set on a glazed clay tray. And a written note that was on the back of a folded up sheet which was her _annotated timeline noooo_.

Whipping her head around her cabin to again confirm she was alone, Webby picked up the note and read it.

_Hey_

_Drink the tea. It’s honey, ginger, cinnamon. Some other additions. ~~Tru~~ believe me, it’ll help. Don’t go out today, you’re going to make yourself sick. Try and take it easy for just one day and stop pushing yourself. I_ mean _it. You got off lucky last night but if you do a repeat your next trip is going to involve an ambulance. Stay inside. Whatever it is you’re working so hard for can wait one day._

_\- Lena_

_PS - I dumped your stuff in the collection box no big you’re welcome_

Her handwriting was so… Lena! Webby wasn’t sure what that meant except that it meant she was basically going to keep this paper in a box somewhere safe.

And the tea set was nice! And…

Webby wobbled when she bent down. She had been entertaining thoughts about going into town for those seeds but maybe Lena had a point. She could wait one day. And Lena had made her tea! Webby was never much of a tea person but it would be the height of rudeness to not partake. Judging from the light, the day was well under way. Maybe she could sit this day out.

She carried the tray to the wood burning stove in the corner and set to work.

* * *

It took a few tries before Dickie settled on a word to describe Webby’s farm: rustic. She had tried, she really had, but “quaint” didn’t quite capture the hard-scrabble look of the place. Neither did “picturesque” or “pastoral” or “idyllic” or “bucolic” or even “provincial.”

It was like a… dust sculpture. Dickie was not a farmer, but she was familiar with the rough outlines of the activity. She knew there was dirt involved, but it really was everywhere.

There was a scarecrow though. That was definitely a farm thing Dickie could recognize. It was, at least, scarecrow shaped. But the details weren’t quite filled in. Whoever heard of a scarecrow without a jaunty straw hat? Or a face? It was just blank burlap. If Dickie had known Webby’s whole situation was this dire she would have brought her paint set and given the place a little _oomph_.

Though she wasn’t completely without tools…

Dickie had brought a little something with her. Food for when she had heard through the grapevine that Webby had taken ill. Warm soup and soft bread and a grab bag of cough syrups she got from the town doctor. All in a beige cloth tote bag. Dickie plucked her pen, always in her pocket, because she never knew when she’d get a good tune in her head that needed writing down. Or a particularly amusing joke. Or even just a bit of gossip that could turn into a news article she’d write for the town gazette. Which was really more of a pamphlet. That mostly only she contributed to and distributed. By pinning it to the bulletin board in town square when nobody was looking.

Dickie neatly emptied the contents of the bag in front of Webby’s door, then flattened the bag over the wood and sketched a face onto it. Friendly. But not too friendly. There were crows to scare. So… still scary but with a heart of gold inside. A tortured past! Tension between the innate goodness of a misunderstood creature and the monster its creator envisioned it to be, oh this was good this was proper pathos…

As she scribbled on the porch She didn’t notice the door opening in front of her until it collided with a cough syrup bottle that rolled in front of her. Dickie looked up.

Webby looked down. “Dickie?” she said.

“Webster! Gimme a sec, I’m coming up with a tragic, dark origin story.”

“You’re… what?”

“Right, right, no time. I’ll… I’ll save it for later. For now…” Dickie picked up the bag and hopped down back to the scarecrow, where she placed the bag upside down over its head. And since she had originally drawn the face right-side up, it was also upside down.

“What do you think?” she said.

Webby squinted. “Scary, but I think I see an underlying heart of gold. Also it’s upside down.”

“Yeah, totally! I mean, I’ll fix that last bit. Uh. Later. I didn’t come here to provide character depth for your scarecrow.”

“Feel free to if you want though!”

“I came to check on you. I heard you were sick.”

“Oh,” Webby looked down sheepishly. “Oh! You didn’t have to do that! I’m okay. Did you... close the bar to check up on me?”

Dickie waved her hand. “Psht. No. It’s not like I’m the only one working there. So you’re okay?”

"Yeah. I just wore myself out and got lost out in the forest. But I’m okay! I’m just resting up. I’ll be good to go tomorrow. Lena gave me tea and it’s really helped a lot actually and I —”

“Wait a minute.” Dickie sniffed. The scent of cinnamon and orange peels and more drifted from inside. It was _good_. She looked at Webby. “Lena, the angry witch who lives like a hermit and has, like, one human contact in the entire world and hasn’t said ten words _tops_ to anyone else? She made you tea?”

“Well, I guess? I mean it was really nice and — wait, did you say _witch_?” Webby’s eyes went wide.

“Dang I’m impressed!” Dickie said. She could see the headline of her next bulletin board printout. _Recluse Rescues Rookie_ or was alliteration played out? She could workshop it. “She’s hard to get to know. One time I tried to make friends with her and I’m pretty sure she hexed me. I mean, ever since I haven’t been able to cook an omelet just right. You ever have that happen to you? It’s either too burnt or too runny or it sticks to the pan and becomes scrambled eggs.”

“Uhhhh…”

“But she makes you tea? That’s pretty wild.”

This seemed to fill Webby with some sort of pride. Dickie watched her stand up straighter and beam.

“Do you want to try some?” she said.

“Uh, yes!” Dickie said. “I’m basically going to be shamelessly nosy about this!”

“Hah!” Webby said, like she had caught Dickie in some fiendishly clever trap. “That’s fine, but only on the condition that you tell me about Lena and what this witch business is about.”

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Dickie said, as if she had to be coerced into this.

The door closed shut behind them, leaving Murder of Crows to wave its broomstick arms in the lazy wind.


	6. Interview With A Witch

### 

Interview With A Witch

It was past time for Lena to go into town. She needed to stock up on cheese and other foods she couldn’t make herself, there were some fabrics she had ordered and never gotten around to collecting and she was overdue to replace her knife. It was time to rip off the bandage and socialize.

It was a tiny village hidden from the world but there were still far too many people in Pelican Town. She didn’t like having so many eyes on her. And all this broad daylight. _Broad. Daylight._ Lena hadn’t really understood the phrase until she started hiding. Daylight really did just… put everything out there and gave people nowhere to hide. Super gross.

She came into town wearing sunglasses and a black, broad-brimmed hat and a long-sleeved dress. She understood there were rumors that she’d burst into flames if exposed to sunlight. Rumors followed her around. It was funny. Whenever a new one cropped up she’d often share it with a disapproving Violet, who didn’t find much amusement in the rank ignorance of some of her fellow townsfolk.

By now most people just steered clear and watched from afar. There might have been one incident, early in her life in the valley, involving someone who had views about folks who “ain’t like us,” or lacked “Pelican Town pride.”

He couldn’t have had all that much pride in the place, given that the night after a particularly heated, public confrontation, he was very quickly packing his bag to leave town. And for all his talk about being a part of the community, the community didn’t seem to raise much of a fuss at seeing the back of him. Though some did speculate and what exactly Lena had done to get him to flee in the night.

For her part, Lena tried to leave people alone and hoped everyone else would do the same. Violet was an exception. The amount of library runs Lena had to make had made it impossible to not be acquainted at least in passing with the town’s one librarian. And when Violet took notice of Lena’s distaste of walking around in public and offered to deliver her books to her tower, well, that was about the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her.

Violet’s dads were nice enough but Lena put them into the background with everyone else. Dickie was… deeply annoying. Nobody should be that chipper. The blacksmith was alright; she was a person of few words as long as no one prompted her to talk about herself. The rest of the village slid by Lena like scenery outside a speeding train. Get in, get her shit, get out.

And she had gotten through most of her chores with only the knife to commission when she was reminded of the new variable in the equation.

“LENA!”

Webby streaked out of the general store and straight to her. Literally no one in the village had ever shouted her name out loud like that and now _everyone_ was staring as Lena frantically looked for an escape from Webby’s big, deliriously happy smile.

“This is great!” Webby said, stopping just short of barreling into her. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to thank you for saving me that one time!”

With no way to extricate herself without drawing more attention, Lena sighed.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s no big. Don’t sweat it.”

“It’s very big and I am sweating it!” Webby said. “I could’ve been seriously hurt. I’m lucky you found me.”

“Okay, well, just don’t do it again.”

Lena noted in an offhand way that although people were staring, they seemed to be staring at Webby, which was new. Probably expected her to get poofed into a frog or something. Which was a thought that annoyed Lena more than usual.

Webby nodded like her head was on a spring. She was clutching a cloth bag to her chest and while Lena had only known her for a little bit, she could tell there was more bounce than usual in Webby’s step.

_Don’t ask don’t care don’t get involved._

“You, uh, do some shopping there, Pink?” Lena said. It was impossible not to get drawn in just a little bit by Webby’s big eyes. It was just idle chatter, anyway.

Webby blinked rapidly then she nodded even harder and Lena was sure she was going to pull a muscle. “My first seeds of spring! It’s going to be hard work, but I’m excited!”

“It’s a bit late to — I mean… oh. Okay. Yeah, you’re really gonna have to put your back into it.”

Webby hummed in agreement. “What about you? You need any help with that stuff?”

Honestly, yes. Lena should have ordered the knife first before picking anything up. Then she wouldn’t be lugging food and bolts of fabric across town just to carry it back again.

“No, I’m good, you don’t need to go outta your way to —”

“It’s not a problem!” Webby vibrated in place, radiating nothing but an open, earnest desire to help. And it really was difficult to resist her big eager eyes.

Lena held out her groceries. Webby hefted a massive cheese wheel onto her shoulder like Atlas holding up the world. She grabbed the rest of the bags effortlessly with her other hand. Lena raised an eyebrow. “Thanks,” she said. She headed towards the other end of town and Webby followed.

“I owe you,” Webby replied instantly. “Oh, that reminds me, I need to return your tea set.”

“There’s no rush. I’m not exactly throwing tea ragers every day or anything.”

“So what else are you in town for?”

“Gotta replace my knife. Remember the old one?”

“Oh yeah! You can use one of mine.”

“I prefer to have my own.”

“Is it because they need to be made out of specific metals or your magic doesn’t work?”

Lena kept looking straight ahead, but she stole sidelong glances at Webby. With anyone else, the question would have had undertones. But Webby still radiated nothing other than innocence and curiosity for the sake of it. She was either being genuine or an extremely good actor and Lena felt she had seen Webby get snagged by the woods too many times to be anything other than what she presented herself as.

“Yeah,” she said, still wary. “Something like that.”

“Ohmigosh I can’t believe you’re a witch this is so _incredible_ ,” Webby said breathlessly. She managed to look giddy even while hauling a cheese wheel as big as she was.

“Keep it down.”

“Oh, sorry, is it a secret?”

“Not really, but it’s not something I want screamed in public. Nothing good ever comes from someone shouting ‘witch’ in the middle of a small village. Don’t you know history? Or movies?”

“Sorry! Sorry. I just get so excited sometimes.”

“Yeah, Pink. I know. I know you get excited.”

“I have soooooo many questions!” Webby said, her words coming out in a burst. “There’s so many I can’t think of any! All I know right now is that this is so cool!”

“Uhhh. Great. Cool.” Lena fixed her eyes straight ahead and tried to beat down the blush across her face through sheer force of will and physical control. Which she was actually able to do.

“Yes!” Webby said, and made a sound like a tea kettle boiling over.

 _Cool_ , Lena thought..

They walked in silence, Webby a pressure cooker of unspoken questions and Lena feeling introspective. They came upon the blacksmith’s, a squat, sturdy structure of stones with a cluster of smokestacks like hedgehog quills crowding the roof.

“Been here before?” Lena said.

“I’ve been meaning to,” said Webby.

“Guess now’s as good a time as any. Leave the cheese.”

* * *

They left town together. Lena hadn’t planned it that way, Webby had just fallen into place by her side as if they had been doing this for years and Lena found that she had no reason to object.

When all was said and done, Webby was _very_ good at carrying heavy objects as well as carrying both sides of a conversation.

“I didn’t think she’d ever finish talking,” Webby said.

“I guess I should have warned you.”

“All I did was ask her about that dagger.”

“That’s all it takes, really,” said Lena. “Then it’s just blah blah, tragic backstory, mysterious parentage, blade of destiny.”

“I mean, I’m usually happy to talk sharp objects, but wow.”

“What else do you like to talk about, Pink?” Lena said. The question surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise Webby. Well, they were in it now. Time to play it cool. “I mean, you have to have other interests.”

“Oh, sure. Lots of things. Uh. History, especially dead languages and lost civilizations. And… toxicology. And… weapons… and… esoteric subjects!” Webby said brightly. “Mysticism and the arcane.”

“Magic,” Lena said.

Webby nodded eagerly.

Magic might have been a big part of Lena’s life, but that didn’t mean she wanted to talk about it. People didn’t go around describing oxygen all day, even though they need it. Even Violet had given up trying to talk shop with Lena.

“I would have thought you’d be into, you know, farming?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Webby said. “I actually don’t know much about farming. I mean, the theory of it sure but I… never really farmed before. I come from a city. Used to be in a pretty bad spot and just kind of… ended up here.”

That, at least, Lena could relate to. Webby was honest and her intentions were easy to read. She was lonely. And, in her own unguarded moments, Lena had to admit being lonely too.

There were worse foundations for a friendship and Lena was actually considering it. Well, she’d probably be pulling this woman out of trouble for who knows how long and she was running out of reasons to ditch her immediately after anyway.

“Come on, Pink,” she said. They had been on the path to Rook Hollow, but now Lena took a small and easy-to-miss deer trail into the brush. Yet despite the untamed brambles around them, the way was not at all difficult to traverse. The path well-maintained and the plants gently pruned. Lena was particularly proud of that. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been down this way,” Webby said.

“Remember the entrance, it’s the only way you’ll ever find this path. I’ve hidden it. Unless you know where to look and where to go, you’ll never see it.”

“How?”

Lena looked back at Webby and wiggled her fingers mystically. 

Webby’s eyes grew wide. " _Magic,_ " she said with quiet awe. She tilted her head. "So does this mean I live in an _enchanted forest_?” 

“I mean it’s a little enchanted. Just a bit. I don’t overdo it. It’s so cliche you know?”  


“Where does this lead?”

“My place, obviously.”

“Your place?”

“I mean, I need somewhere to drop off my groceries.”

“You have a place?”

“Yeah, Pink. You’re the one who sleeps in trees. I’ve got an actual bed.”

“So do I!” Webby said indignantly.

“I know. I carried you there.”

“Oh, yeah. How did you know where I lived anyway? Did you use witchcraft?”

“You’re the newest thing to happen to this valley since indoor plumbing, everyone knows you live out at the old farm.”

That seemed to give Webby pause and she walked quietly in thought. The leaves rustled and the birds sang and unseen things scrabbled through the underbrush. Somewhere, they heard the rush of the river.

Eventually Lena could see the peaked, conical roof of her tower piercing the forest canopy like a crooked mushroom. Streaks of brown rust ran from round windows framed in cast iron. Even from where they were, Lena could hear the scrape of knobby talons as a crow danced from one foot to another on top of the little tin smokestack.

The tower sat on a little hill which was at the foot of an even larger hill, leading up into the mountains. A path up had been carved into the slope and paved with flat stone embedded in mossy soil. The arched, heavy wooden door, the fenced-in garden and shadowy chicken coop were always a welcome sight to Lena and she caught herself nearly presenting the whole thing in a fit of domestic pride as Webby first laid eyes on it all.

“You live in _such_ a cool place! When you clean it, do you have to start at the top so all the dust falls down? What’s it like in winter, is it cold? Do you ever feel it sway during strong winds and is it as amazing as I think it is? What’s growing in the garden? Do you have a cat because I think a cat would look _perfect_ in a place like this.”

“Easy there,” Lena said. She led the way up the gently curving path. “I’ve already forgotten most of those questions.”

At the door, Webby set the cheese wheel down with a _thunk_. Lena took her groceries, shifting her bolts of cloth up to her shoulder. “Thanks, Webby. You saved me a lot of trouble.”

Webby nodded and looked pleased. Then she stared out into the trees. Sunlight filtered through to a bright green that dappled the forest floor.

“We’re not far from the farm,” she said. “We’re practically neighbors!”

Hearing that made it real in a way that it hadn’t been for Lena. She had always thought of the land as her tower _here_ and then the town with all its people over _there_. Now there was the farm.

“Would it be, uh, cool? If I visited?” Webby said. “You know. Every now and then?”

Lena liked having boundaries. It was kind of a thing for her. And there was still that reflexive part of her that was screaming about not getting involved, that she should walk away, wash her hands of this. But she had shown Webby where she lived and she had done it for a reason, even if she was hiding the reason from herself.

“Sure,” she said, and she had to talk quickly because she really did think Webby was going to pop at just that one word, with the way she looked. “Just don’t expect an invitation inside. I like my privacy.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! I’ll… uh… knock? From a distance? With a rock I guess? I’ll throw a rock at your door.”

“You can just do the regular kind of knock,” Lena said. “We’ll figure it out from there.”

“Right. Yes. This is so great! My first seeds of vegetables and my first seeds of friendship!”

“Ha ha, okay. That’s... that’s a way to put it. I gotta put this stuff away,” said Lena.

Soon Lena was waving as Webby receded into the forest, heading to her farm. And she was heading to her farm. Lena watched to be sure Webby was going in the right direction.

That was… nice, Lena decided. Yes. She hardly even felt awkward back in the village. Or at least she felt an entirely different kind of awkward that she did not mind as much. Webby was friendly and easy to talk to and fun to tease and didn’t judge Lena.

 _That’s because she doesn’t know what you are_ , said the little voice in her head. _Keep this up and that’s going to change. Then what are you going to do?_

The silly little smile Lena hadn’t even realized was on her face fell away sharply and her hand dropped to her side. Lena turned on the forest, retreated into the tower and closed the door.


	7. A Blueprint Is A Promise To The Future

### A Blueprint Is A Promise To The Future

When Webby told the Pelican Town shopkeep her plans, he looked down at her from his counter, adjusted his glasses and mustered hidden reserves of disapproval to beam directly at the new farmer.

Pomeroy was an old buzzard who ran the general store and was one of those people that Ty and Indy had advised Webby to get to know. But that was hard with someone who mostly just glares through thick glasses. The librarian back in Duckburg was very similar.

He reached down into the recesses behind the counter and produced several packets in his gnarled fingers. Their contents rattled as he gestured with them. “Radishes,” he said gruffly. “Root vegetable. Tough. Ought to do well despite your amateur fumbling.”

Webby wanted to take offense to that but that was when she had seen Lena pass by the display window, so she had slapped down her money and grabbed everything she had purchased as soon as it was bagged.

After she parted ways with Lena, the reality of what she was doing sunk in. 

There was just so much to growing food. It felt like each seed she was planting was an experiment with so many variables to account for. Light and water and soil composition and so much more. Was this one getting enough nutrition? Was the soil too hard packed to support a root system? What about insects or other pests? What about the pH balance of the earth? Was it too acidic? Alkaline? She had read that was important in some way. Also she might have to sing to the plants? That wasn’t a big ask, she was already talking to the scarecrow, but what kind of genre did they like?

Things had reached the point where she was starting to pay attention to that incomprehensible public access show. The spirits were feeling generous today? What did that mean? Who knows! But she’d make sure to give the plants a little extra attention then. Just in case.

She was so consumed by the beginning of planting season — or, at least, the beginning of _her_ planting season — that Webby didn’t have much chance to go find Lena again.

And now it was raining. Droplets pattered against the windows and drummed on the ceiling. The rain came down in a torrential roar that waned only to surge again. Webby hadn’t even changed out of her sleep clothes. There didn’t seem much point.

At least the decision to water the plants today had been taken out of her hands.

Webby had spent so much time out there that the forest might be more familiar to her than the interior of her own farmhouse. The place could use some work.

It felt churlish to complain; she had all she needed, really. Considering how remote her location was, she felt fortunate to have plumbing and electricity. Her phone could even get a signal. Most times. The town had a more reliable connection and it was becoming a habit of hers to settle in at the Snowdrift or the library and send off a few messages to Granny to let her know her granddaughter was still alive.

She jolted up from where she sat at the foot of her bed.

“So stupid!” she slapped the palm of her hand against her forehead. She could have asked Lena for her number! She wasn’t sure that Lena _had_ a phone, but probably? They were out in the country but that didn’t mean they were living in the past or anything. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked for Violet or Dickie’s. She felt a little guilty that this only occurred to her now.

A flash of white light filled the window, cutting through the overcast gloom. No sooner had it faded then a crash of thunder rolled over her little house, rattling it down to its frame.

“Don’t go stir crazy yet, Webby,” she said to herself. “You spent your entire childhood in a mansion, you can do one evening on your own in a cabin.”

So she cleaned. Which didn’t take long. There were some stubborn stains in the kitchenette, the decades of disuse had given them time to really settle in but Webby could be stubborn too. When she had finished that and found herself still full of energy she exercised. The spartan furnishing worked well for her there. She worked through the routine that Granny had set for her since she was old enough to count. It was ingrained deep into her muscle memory, something she’d likely carry with her for her entire life. From Duckburg to Starduck Valley to… to…

Was this it? Would Webby be here in the valley? Was this her life? She wasn’t… upset at the idea. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. It was far too early to answer these types of questions, though they would need answering eventually.

That was the problem with her workouts. They gave her brain a chance to wander, find bothersome subjects to settle on. She hopped up from her push-ups and wiped at the light sheen of sweat matting the feathers on her brow.. Next were pull-ups. Webby looked around. She looked up. She regarded the wooden beams that criss-crossed the ceiling overhead.

Webby faced the window and took a step back. She bounced experimentally on her feet. Then she took a running jump, found purchase on the window sill and pushed off into a somersault up into the rafters. She caught a sturdy beam in her hands and she swung to a standstill, suspended over the floor.

“Hah!” she said with a slight strain in her voice. “Still got it!” She adjusted her grip. Cobwebs and dust fluttered into her face and she spluttered. Then pulled herself up with a grunt.

When she was finished and landed smoothly back on the floor, she was dusting off her hands and looking up speculatively. Could she… put bars in?

She at least had the answer to _that_ question. The answer was yes.

Because this was her place.

“Huh,” Webby said to herself. Actually owning a house was another one of those paradigm shifts. One of the Sabrewings was a carpenter, if she recalled correctly.

She could put in an entire fitness room! Or… a study? Or… twenty… studies?

Having a mansion as her main reference point for a house was probably skewing her perspective. And money was probably involved. More money than picking mushrooms would bring in.

At the very least she could insulate the place better. It got drafty at night.

But it was worth thinking about, and also possibly making a checklist about! Now that was excitement. And she could expand on her timeline, make a nice spreadsheet for budgeting. If her heart wasn’t elevated from the exercise it would definitely be now.

After stretching out her aching muscles and cleaning up, Webby felt the restlessness of being hemmed in by the rain fall away.

Under the bed she had stashed most of her worldly possessions. She shifted her sword to one side, her spike trap kit to the other, and pushed away the grimoire of spells that she never really got around to using. Maybe Lena would like it? Something to keep in mind.

Once she retrieved her notebook, Webby sat up cross-legged and flipped to the first empty page she could find. She hummed to herself to the percussion of rain hitting her roof as she scribbled plans for the future.

* * *

The storm went on for three days.

In that time she had planned the _daylights_ out of her farmhouse. Maybe the crow’s nest was a bit much but that had happened on the tail end of the third day when things got a little overboard. It wasn’t all crow’s nests and spike traps and a fortified portcullis flanked by drum towers complete with crenelations and balistrariae. Well, most of it was.

Remembering Dickie’s words, she took her plans to Violet for a second opinion. Violet proceeded to mercilessly cut away the impractical bits of Webby’s redesign, leaving her with functional, practical and modest modifications to her farmhouse as well as an efficient crop layout.

“Yes, this is an adequate proposal,” Violet said. “Not too ambitious but it doesn’t shirk from the challenges set before you. I can’t stand shirking.” Webby sat across from her in Pelican Town’s library. They were alone on a Sunday, the air a heady blend of wet earth and old book. There were no flimsy metal shelves on threadbare carpet. They were dark polished oak that looked as ancient as the valley itself and were heavy with leather and cloth bound tomes, most of them concerned with agricultural secrets and phases of the moon and almanacs. They had a certain esoteric charm that Webby appreciated. Farming was nearly as full of secrets as forbidden martial arts techniques. She just had to adjust her expectations to things of a more potato-related nature rather than exploding a guy’s heart with her fist.

It was an adjustment she wasn’t sure she could make without Violet’s guidance. Violet seemed to know just the books Webby would need, and would throw in a few adventure novels or a historic account of some ancient battle to keep her interested. And they completely did! Violet had an uncanny knack for reading people in the one specific way of getting them the books that they needed.

This was quickly becoming Webby’s favorite library. All it really needed was maybe a skull. Or a sword collection. A display of precious gems, cursed or otherwise, Webby wasn’t picky.

“So do you think your Dad can build it?” Webby said.

“You realize that this is _his_ profession, yes?” Violet said. She rolled Webby’s plans up and tapped them against the counter. “He would be the better judge. I understand his rates are considered reasonable.”

“I kind of don’t actually know where his business is?”

Violet rubbed the underside of her beak. “Point taken. He does not have a storefront so much as he operates from our home. Which is not in town. I’ll take you.”

“Great!”

“After the library closes. Which we do early on weekends.” Violet checked her phone. “Would you be able to wait exactly 23 minutes?”

Webby sat with her hands clasped in front of her, twiddling her fingers. Violet raised a skeptical eyebrow before returning to a bin of books. Three minutes later, Webby started wandering.

She rapped her knuckles against the walls as she moved deeper into the building. This was a library, and any library worth the books on its shelves has a mystery in it.

And the mystery of the Pelican Town library is that it should be twice as big as it is.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a mystery. Anyone who looked at the building on the outside could notice that the library inside didn’t take up all the space. With her crops planted and watered — possibly drowned, considering the rain, Webby was a bit worried about that — the time to find out why was now.

There was probably a book that sat on a pressure plate. Choose the right one and boom, the wall slides away and…

Webby’s fingers ran over the frame of a shut door, with a sign hanging from a hook that read “closed for renovations.” 

Or there’s just a door.

“Mysterious,” Webby whispered insistently, she brushed her fingertips on the heavy wooden door. She knocked on it experimentally. It was thick, but the sound echoed, suggesting a chamber. Large, unknown. Who could say what dark secrets lurked —

“It’s open,” Violet called out from the circulation desk. “Try not to kick up too much dust back there.”

“Oh,” said Webby.

She tried the knob and the door crept open on squeaking hinges.

It was dark. The light from the library fell over a broad wooden table in the center of a large room lined with display cases. All empty, dust layered over glass casings and obscuring dull placards.

“What is this?” Webby said.

“Starduck Valley’s Nature and History Museum,” Violet said. “Formerly.”

“It’s all empty!” Tears formed in the corners of Webby’s eyes from all the dust floating in the air. She blinked them away and peered into the darkness. “This is that museum you said you curated?”

“Indeed. As I said. Formerly. It was once filled with artifacts and mineral samples from all across the valley. Skulls. Swords. That kind of thing.”

“Did you say skulls and swords?” Webby shouted, her voice carrying in the library in a way that made Violet glare. Webby winced and looked sheepish.

“Long ago there was a pirate hideout in the cliffs that overlook the sea. Their remains were quite fascinating, I am given to understand.”

“And the… minerals?”

“Well, I say minerals but the valley’s geology results in an unusual amount of precious gemstones. That plus the occasional deposit of pirate treasure and, well…”

“Was any of it… cursed? Cursed treasure?” Webby said, the hope naked in her voice.

“I suppose one could come to that conclusion given that the museum is very much empty,” Violet said.

“Yeah! What happened to it all?” Webby wiped a dusty placard and read something about a tibia that had been shot through by a pirate blunderbuss, then extracted from a limestone grotto. She ooh’d.

“As I heard it, a previous librarian believed he could make a small fortune for himself by stealing every exhibit and selling it all on the black market.”

“Black market?” Webby said. She returned to the counter. “ _Smuggling?_ What else?” She was rapt.

“A daring midnight escape through a raging thunderstorm in a vehicle laden with loot,” Violet said. “The Valley gets extended periods of heavy rain.”

“Like this weekend?”

“Much worse than that,” Violet said. She leaned forward as Webby returned to sit across from her. “The valley walls are steep. Rock and mudslides become a distinct danger. And that’s what buried the thief as he tried to drive his truck up and over the side. He was washed away, down into the basin. He and everything he stole was buried under the mud. Never to be seen again.”

“More,” Webby whispered fiercely, her eyes practically shimmering. “Tell me more.”

“Hm. That’s about it,” Violet said.

“What? But… hasn’t anyone gone to _look_ for it all? No… treasure hunting?”

“The rain was substantial. I am given to understand historic, even,” said Violet. “They were fortunate to recover the body. As for everything else, it was scattered when his truck was overturned. And once it filtered into the valley, they settled everywhere. It was deemed unrecoverable. The museum has been closed since. This was well before my time. I’m sure many people simply forgot.”

“What if… I found something? Anything?”

“If you happen to find the time while tending to a considerable amount of arable land then I suppose you could bring it here and I will see to it that it is properly displayed for patrons once again. If you are inquiring as to a reward of some sort, the library budget does not allow for —”

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Webby said. “You wouldn’t have to pay me to find buried treasure! I’d want to do it. But… yeah. I do have vegetables to grow.” She frowned. “Well, I guess it’s something to keep in mind.”

“Indeed. There are so many things to keep in mind,” Violet said. She didn’t appear to care either way, but Webby was willing to guess that someone like Violet would very much like to have a museum in town once again. Which meant that _this_ particular neutral expression she wore was the hopeful, or wistful kind. Webby remembered it so she could use it as a gauge to measure all of Violet’s other completely neutral expressions. She’d crack the code yet.

Violet checked the clock on the wall. “It is closing time. I shall take you to my house.”

It was just past midday when they stepped out of the library. Webby blinked against the daylight. The storm was long gone, its clouds swept away and the sky clear for the sun to shine down, reflecting off puddles and glistening in the dew still clinging to the leaves and the grass. There was a steaminess in the air as the spring torrent sizzled in the sun.

“Is humidity a thing here?” Webby said.

“Humidity is very much a thing here,” said Violet. She turned a key in the lock, tested the door a few times and then stepped away. “It’s awful for books, but it’s only really an issue in the spring.”

“I’m not really for humidity, as a concept,” said Webby. “I’ve always wanted to be a fire breather. I bet they never have to deal with humidity, what with the fire. Also they breathe fire, so, bonus.”

“I have access to gasoline and online videos,” Violet said.

“Oooh-hoo-hoooo.” Webby rubbed her hands together. “We should totally… I mean… after I get a handle on this whole farming thing. Or maybe. No, no, I should really… but put a pin in that! It sounds like a good way to pass a weekend!”

“I’ll put it on my calendar,” said Violet.

She walked through town and Webby followed. Locals nodded and she waved back. She was starting to learn more names now. Dickie, of course. The Sabrewings. There was Gabby, the blacksmith, she was fun. There were the regulars at the Snowdrift and the shopkeep and a few of the fishers on the beach. Still so many people to meet and know and stories for her to hear!

And… Lena.

Oh it had been so long since she’d seen Lena. Webby felt it like a frame missing its picture. A hole in the diorama of her life. And wasn’t that odd? How does someone insert themselves so quickly in the life of another? As soon as the rain had ended she wanted to go out and find Lena. But the forest was still waterlogged. Webby could hear the river from her place. It had sounded angry and even before she had heard about mudslides and people getting buried under them from Violet, she knew better than to test her luck against a forest that was still taking in runoff from the surrounding mountains. Secret forest passageways or no.

But she couldn’t even pat herself on the back for being so sensible because she _still_ wanted to see Lena. Webby had never felt that way about someone before. It was very frustrating, but also she liked it? That couldn’t possibly be… normal, could it? People didn’t go around feeling like this, did they? No way. How would they function? Webby felt like _she_ was barely functioning. Only her steely discipline and sheer willpower, the product of having been trained by one of the world’s top spies, allowed her to keep up a facade of complete, perfect normality.

And she walked into a garbage can. _Definitely_ because it came out of nowhere and not because Webby had been distracted. Her arms pinwheeled as she stumbled over the can and landed in the contents it spilt out.

“Are you okay?” Violet said. She rushed to Webby’s side and knelt.

“Yes! Fine! Ha ha.” Webby rolled over and stood quickly. “This old pizza box broke my fall.”

It was also soggy and soaked through her clothes. Gross.

“We can… address this once we get to my house,” Violet said. “I’m sure I have a change of clothes that will fit you while we wash off this pizza water. A shower, perhaps?”

Webby nodded as she righted the trash can and put the lid back on. She was more confounded than embarrassed. This was exactly her point! People didn’t go around all distracted like this. They’d never get anything done!

She cleared her throat and looked at Violet. “Let’s not talk about this.”

Violet studied her with an arch eyebrow. She shrugged. “Very well. Then let us continue.” 

Webby followed Violet out of town. They walked uphill, where the town nestled against the side of the valley. As their path sloped upward the houses gave way to forest. They walked past roaring falls that cascaded over river-smoothed boulders. The white foaming rapids drowned out all attempts at a conversation quieter than shouted words.

“It’s usually not this loud!” Violet called out.

“Yeah, yeah!” Webby said. “Storms, I get it!”

They put the water behind them and went up a winding path until they walked past a row of trees and Webby could see a large, rustic home standing on an outcropping that gave it a sweeping view of the valley below and the mountains behind it. It was two stories, with a stone foundation and a frame of sturdy timber. Two wings extended out from the main entrance and warm yellow light spilled out from the windows.

“Wow,” Webby said. “It’s… this is beautiful! And big!”

“It is the largest residential structure in the valley, so yes, accurate,” said Violet.

“I’d hate to drip garbage water into a place like this.”

“Please, do not concern yourself. Now come along, you should get dry before you are afflicted with some kind of malady.”

Webby nodded, hardly in a state where she would fight Violet on this too much. Violet opened the door, and Webby followed her inside.

* * *

“What’s the scribble here?” Ty said.

After Webby had the opportunity to clean up and put on fresh clothes, she had met Violet’s father. He had her plans spread out on his draft table, Violet and Webby flanking him.

“That’s where I had my crow’s nest,” Webby said. “But, you know, it’s, ha ha, impractical.”

Ty smiled. “Violet told you that, didn’t she?”

“It _is_ , father.”

“How did you know?” Webby said.

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen my girl edit someone’s work.”

“If they do not wish to receive feedback so frank they are free to find literally anyone else in the valley,” Violet said primly.

“She does have a way of cutting straight to the bone of any issue,” Ty said to Webby.

“Except when it comes to cinnamon rolls!” Webby said.

Violet shrugged. “Perfection eludes even me. Now, since I’ve brought you to your objective I shall be in my toolshed in the back. I spend my weekends updating my catalog of research materials. I find it relaxing.”

Webby nodded. “Oh, that does sound fun. When I was younger I’d do the same for my Granny’s armory. Restring our bows and crossbows, inspect the priming mechanisms for our bombs. You know.”

The slightest twitch of a smile flickered over Violets face. “Indeed. Webbigail, father.” She nodded at both before leaving.

“Not to change the subject but this is a pretty great house, Mister Sabrewing,” Webby said once Violet was gone. “Did you build it yourself? Being a carpenter and all?”

“This? No. Though I did do the remodeling. And please, call me Ty.”

“I’m Webby.”

“Yes. This house has been a part of the valley long before we moved here. There is a mine a little further up and this was the foreman’s mansion. Then came the mine worker’s riot. The land was really cheap once they got done with this place! And the house? Oh that was what you’d call a ‘fixer upper’. Violet still finds rusty pickaxe heads and torches in the backyard.”

“Neat,” said Webby.

“Ha ha, yes,” said Ty. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you consider your own improvements to that farmhouse. It’s also a fixer upper; it’s just looking for an owner to give it the proper attention, you know?”

“So this is all doable?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. I can give you a quote, but I’d have to inspect the building for a final price tag.”

Webby blinked. “Yes, right, money. Yeah, sure!” It’s just a number. It couldn’t hurt.

Ty handed her a piece of paper. It had a number on it. She looked at it.

“Huh,” Webby said in a detached sort of way. “You know, I’ve never felt a number punch me in the gut like this.”

“It’s actually discounted. Assuming that you contribute materials found on that farm. Lumber and such. There are quite a few trees there, yes? Good lumber. Good soil. You know, Indy has some theories about the fertility of the valley; it's very fascinating.”

“I love fascinating things,” Webby said, “but I think I’m going to have to put a pin on my plans.”

“Of course, I understand. But do keep me in mind. Don’t tell my daughter, but the crow’s nest? I like it. Once you're ready and you’re still in love with it, we’ll talk.”

“Thank you. It’s just… so much!” Webby said. Her eyes flicked to Ty. “I… not that I’m complaining about the price! I’m not. But when I think of all the things I need to do to… I don’t know. Make that farm a proper place. The time and the work and, okay, yeah, the money. Right now it looks like a ditch with a shack in it. And a scarecrow. Love that scarecrow. We’ve become real close. Anyway…” Webby gestured at her scribbled plans. “I look at that and it might as well be some impossible fantasy!”

Ty opened his mouth, then closed it as if reconsidering his words. Then opened it again. “Any project is going to seem impossible if you only look at the big picture.”

“It’s more of a big doodle.”

“A doodle can be a plan too,” Ty said. “But you just have to focus on what you can do at the moment, yes? And not think too much about the big doodle.”

“That’s not really something I can just turn off.”

“Hm. You said you inventoried your armory on weekends?” Ty chuckled. “I get the sense that it was not a small job.”

“Oh, no! Definitely not.” Webby sighed at the wave of nostalgia. “Granny had nearly an entire corridor to herself filled with rooms full of weapons. All kinds, all sorts. Sure it took a while, but if I just broke it down and focused on — oh. I see. Okay.”

“Not so different, yes?” Ty said.

“But I really like weapons. I don’t know if I can feel the same way about… farming.”

“Well, it’s not just farming, is it?” Ty said.

“It’s sure not what I came here for,” said Webby. “I guess it was more about getting away.”

“I can definitely relate to that,” Ty said. He returned her drawing. Clipped to it was a small card. “They say that people who come to the valley find what they’re looking for, though. When you do, feel free to call me up and we can set up an appointment. Well. When you find the money. That’s what I should have said. But also I hope you find that something the valley has in store for you too.”


	8. One Day in the Hollow

### One Day in the Hollow

It took several days before Lena received word that the knife was ready, forged to her exact specifications. Then it was a night of leaving it out in the moonlight with a small pile of dried herb left to smoke underneath it.

And after that last ritual, the edge of the blade sang in her senses. Not shadow magic, but something clean and bright and sharp. When she cut away at the roots and leaves she needed for her components, the plants would not be so badly damaged. Would grow back more readily. The forest could accommodate her.

In a sense, learning about magic was also learning about herself. The valley was not exactly a hotbed of wizardry and Violet’s library was hardly bursting at the seams with spell books. But Lena managed. Just as there was magic in eclipses and moon phases, there was magic in a y-shaped branch or a robin’s egg. There was magic in a pebble that had been worn smooth in a brook or a rusty horseshoe half-buried in river muck. There was magic in the keystone of a building entrance and in the crossroad outside of town.

Lena had tried to move away from shadow magic to avoid the attention of the things that lurked there, and doing so opened up other possibilities. She could feel power in the dark, loamy soil that fed the forest and ate, in turn, the things that died there. She could feel the power in made things, the intentions and thoughts poured into crafted objects.

Shadow magic might come easier, but this stuff was still pretty cool.

Lena harvested quickly, cutting through stems and bagging herbs in a smooth motion she had cultivated over years. She had time to learn the forest, and there were any number of routes she walked depending on the day, week or month. Never the same route twice in a row.. The plants needed a chance to grow back. Bunch of needy little babies.

This particular circuit took Lena around the edges of the woods. A good place for wild ginger and lavender. Also the occasional broken beer bottle, where it skirted the highway off-ramp. Which wasn’t particularly magical, but she could take the colored glass and grind it down and use it to decorate her tower. Make wind chimes. Or if the bottle was intact, Lena could write a cryptic message on some paper and put it inside and leave it out in the wilds for some poor sap to stumble on and puzzle over. A girl needed hobbies. Especially if she was committed to the hermit lifestyle.

Moving mostly on autopilot, her feet practiced in walking the path she had walked so often, she didn’t think of how it went right through Rook’s Hollow. Which until very recently had been an overgrown, abandoned farmhouse in the middle of a thicket.

Lena stepped out of the line of trees into a broad daylight which had definitely not been a thing last time she was here. She stood in a clearing with rows of tilled soil. There was a scarecrow with a canvas bag over its head that someone had drawn an upside down face on.

“Lena!”

There was Webby, bent over a pile of dirt with a hoe in her hands. She wore a straw hat against the sun and thick gloves stained dark with the earth. She cast them off as she jogged over to Lena and wiped at her brow.

“Hello, neighbor!” She said and propped herself up on the hoe.

“Hey,” said Lena. “Uh. Didn’t mean to crash your place. Kinda just happened, you know?”

“Oh, yeah! Anytime! You can, you know, chill.” Webby said, endeavoring to make it sound like this was, in fact, the premier, cool place to chill. “I found a cave in the back that looks like it might have bats.”

“That… is nice. Sounds good,” Lena said. “This place has changed.”

“Not by much,” said Webby. “There’s still so much to do!”

Lena waved it away. “Don’t be like that, it takes a lot of work to, you know… deforest land that’s been reclaimed by trees.”

“Well when you say it like that it sounds like I did a bad thing.” Webby looked away, reached over her chest and rubbed her shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to,” Lena said, holding her hands up. “I just kind of talk like that. The forest is big. It’s not like this is some kind of industrial hell-farm. Don’t worry about it.”

A silence settled between them. Lena watched Webby fidget, casting about for some subject they could talk about. Hopefully she was having better luck than Lena was.

“So you’re… into trees?”

Laughing softly, Lena shrugged and tugged at a stray lock of hair that had peeked out from her wide-brimmed hat. “I don’t know about that. I’ve just been here for so long. Definitely feel like I’ve talked to more trees than people. I’d feel bad about it, but most people aren’t really worth knowing.”

“Oh, ha ha, yeah.” Webby moved back a bit. “Totally.”

 _I didn’t mean you_ , Lena thought and utterly failed to say aloud. She jerked her hand away from where it had been playing with her hair.

She cleared her throat. “But, you know, I guess I _could_ stand to be a _little_ more social or whatever. So… how are you doing? What’s up?”

Webby rubbed her shoulder again. “Actually, not that great?”

Lena blinked. “Yeah?”

“It’s just, you know, farming.” Webby glanced back at her little clearing with its little rows of little plants. “I’m not sure I’m getting the hang of it.”

And maybe Lena _could_ listen to that voice in her head. The one that told her to play it safe, play it cautious, don’t get involved or attached. It’s what had kept her safe and hidden for so long. She could nod and sympathize and walk away. Webby could probably figure things out. She seemed resourceful. Maybe reckless. But that was even more reason to walk away.

“Maybe I can help,” Lena said. She put a cork in that voice. Temporarily at least. Webby looked so small and uncertain under that straw hat. The wavering doubt in her voice had sapped so much of the boundless energy that Webby had possessed when she had spent her days charging headlong through the woods, determined to make things work. But this was farming. Tending. Caring. No amount of grit and determination was going to make a parsnip grow faster. There had to be patience. And Webby seemed so lost at sea that Lena… couldn’t turn away. It would be like abandoning a puppy in the wild.

The look that radiated from Webby’s face was as warm as the sun. “You mean it?”

“I suppose I can _try_ ,” Lena said, playing off the tightness in her chest. “I mean. You started the planting season a little late, so you were bound to get into trouble. You’re lucky we got a little extra rain in.”

“This is good! This is great!” Webby clasped her hands together. “I’m already learning about planting seasons, which are a thing!”

She tried to contain herself, but she damn near _pranced_ in circles around Lena. She was a mix of bashfulness and barely contained pride as she guided Lena around the farm and showed off the fruits of her labor. And she _had_ worked hard. Lena could see it in the meticulously cleared dirt. Not even the smallest sprout of a weed could be found. Which was really impressive considering the state of the place a few short weeks ago. Felled trees had been chopped into lumber and arranged in an orderly stack under the lee of the cabin and the rough ground had been raked over, rocks sifted away and a dirt trail going from the cabin towards the main path that led back to town. It wasn’t going to win any awards or get featured in a lifestyle magazine, but it was good work; and impressive for the time Webby had been going solo.

Seeing all that effort go to waste would have been heartbreaking.

So Lena put aside her herbs at the foot of the stairs leading up to Webby’s farmhouse and she smoothed her dress down as she crouched down to scrutinize the crops. Webby followed suit, and the two of them huddled together.

If Webby seemed in awe of the things Lena knew, Lena was nearly just as surprised. She had never formally recited what she had learned about caring for plants. She never had anyone to tell. Now that she did, it turned out she actually knew what the hell she was talking about.

And her audience listened intently, and was quick to learn and quicker to build on what she learned, making suggestions as they talked. Maybe they weren’t all great suggestions. Lena had to let Webby down gently when she floated a few of her own ideas. No matter how compelling she made her case, there were simply no glaciers in the valley that she could drag into the basin to provide a consistent supply of irrigation water. 

At one point, Webby had — in that subtle way that wasn’t subtle at all — brought up the possibility of using magic to help her plants grow. But magic, Lena had explained, didn’t work like that. There was a give and a take. And if she were going to give a plant life then, well, she’d have to take it from something else. She didn’t elaborate on it but the look Webby had given her suggested that she had filled in the blanks.

“Look, you don’t need magic. People’ve been growing plants since, like, history. Bottom line is don’t overthink it. Your parsnips want to grow. Don’t fuss over them too much. Let them do their own thing. But you know, I mean, don’t ignore them either.”

“Aw. You make it sound like a friendship,” Webby said.

“Exactly like a friendship,” Lena said. “Including when you pull them from their home and drop them in a box so someone can buy and eat them.”

“That’s a very different definition from the one I’m using.”

“It’s jokes.”

“I knew that.”

The day had waned into evening. Lena had spent more time here than she intended. After a moment’s consideration she decided she wasn’t that upset about it.

“Do you want to stay?” Webby said. Lena looked over to her. They had been sitting in a huddled crouch for a while now and Lena was dreading the idea of getting up and stretching out the aches in her legs. Webby was still looking down at the tiny sprouts, her head dipped low so her expression was unreadable under the brim of her hat. She spoke like the words were unpracticed, rusty. They probably were.

“For dinner!” She followed up before Lena could respond. “I don’t have much, but I think I’m getting better. If you’re interested. Potatoes and… stuff. From the general store. It won’t take long! I was just going to warm up what I made this morning. I know that sounds… you know… not special or anything, but… ha ha…” her voice trailed off, already anticipating the rejection.

And Lena had one prepared. Once again she heard that warning voice in her head. _Don’t get involvedd_. She opened her mouth to gently turn Webby down.

Instead the words that came out were: “When you say ‘potatoes and stuff’ are you just baking them? Is there seasoning involved?”

“Oh, uh, wow, that sounds good. It’s a little salt and butter… you know, nothing fancy but it keeps you going.”

Lena retrieved her herb bag and uncinched it. “Go and prep it. But when you do sprinkle some of this on top. It’s fresh rosemary.”

Webby looked at the sprig of rosemary like Lena had just offered her a branch from the World Tree. She clutched it in both hands and made a strangled, happy sound. “Stay right there! I’ll be back in just a bit!”

“Uh, okay,” Lena said even as Webby hopped up the steps of the cabin.

Very abruptly alone, Lena inhaled, taking in the sudden peace and quiet.

_Why in the world are you staying? What exactly is the plan here?_

“Eat potatoes,” she said aloud. She tickled the little parsnip sprout in front of her.

It wasn’t long before Webby kicked open her front door, two steaming plates in her hands. They sat together on the steps leading of the farmhouse, the clink of metal forks on ceramic plates mingling with the sound of bird call and crickets rasping in the tall grass.

“Sorry we’re eating out here,” Webby said between bites. “My place is kind of a mess. And barely furnished.”

“It’s fine,” Lena said. The breeze was a soft touch against her cheek and fireflies blinked as they bobbed among the trees. “This is nice. The food is too. Compliments to the chef and all that.”

“Well,” Webby smiled bashfully, “the chef had help.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“From the cooking show I watched this morning,” Webby said with an expression of perfect innocence.

It took a moment, but Lena nearly spit out her food with laughter. It wasn’t _funny_ , but it was the kind of not funny that went back to being funny. “Webby!” Lena said, composing herself and covering her beak with the back of her hand. “You told a joke! I didn’t think you had it in you!”

Webby beamed, visibly pleased.

“You get a television signal out here?” Lena said after a while. “Kinda jealous.”

“The house is wired. Guess it’s close enough to town.”

“I can’t even remember the last time I watched anything,” said Lena. “Especially after someone threw a spear at the TV in the Snowdrift.”

“Wait, what?”

“It was probably some wild party. Didn’t get to see the carnage. Sad.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t get much out here. Like, three channels. I get a public access channel that shows a fortune teller in the morning and old movies at night. Not even the good kind of movies. Old horror stuff, you know, black and white with lots of cheap sets. Mad scientist making man-eating mole monsters, that kind of thing. Entertaining in its own way.”

Lena smiled. “Revenge of the Mole Beast? I love that one! It’s so cheesy.”

“I think it was Bride of the Mole Beast, but yeah!

“The 80s remake is so much better. Chainsaws make most movies better, if you ask me.”

“I never saw it,” said Webby.

“ _How_ have you not seen it?” Lena said. “I’ve seen it and I’m… uh… I don’t get out much.”

Webby chuckled, an edge of bitterness in it. “I’m willing to bet I get out even less,” she said. “I’ve got some pretty big pop culture gaps.”

“Oh we have got to hook you up, Pink,” Lena said. “Trust me, you’ll love it. I can… hm. Usually when I want to watch a movie I go to town where there’s a signal and download it onto my phone. Might not work for two of us.”

“I’m willing to give it a try!” Webby said excitedly. “I have really good eyes. Or maybe we can transfer it onto my laptop?”

“Don’t worry, Pink, we’ll make it work somehow. If you need to catch up on what’s cool then you ran into the right person.” This was an absolute lie and Lena knew it. She was far too removed from the centers of cultural taste making to make that kind of claim. But what the hell. This was fun. “What about music? Heard of the Featherweights? Never mind, I’ll bring you their best of.”

The rest of dinner passed far too soon, but as the very first stars sparkled in the twilight, Lena had to admit it was time to go.

“Can’t keep you up too late,” she said with a smirk. “Aren’t you farmers supposed to be up early?”

“Aw. I suppose.”

They stood up in unison, setting their dishes on the patio. Webby stepped out of the way as Lena stooped down to take her bag.

“Thanks for all your help,” Webby said, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands clasped in front of her.

“Just be patient and you’ll do alright.”

Webby nodded. Then she opened her mouth but stopped herself. Lena raised an eyebrow as Webby fidgeted, grappling with some internal struggle.

“Do you think… we could… trade numbers?” Webby said. “You know. So we can plan, uh, movie stuff? Or whatever. You know, no big deal, just… it might be easier?” She held up the small rectangle of her phone.

Lena took it from her and tapped through to a list of contacts. She tactfully refrained from noting out loud how very bare it was. “Here you go. Text my number and I’ll add you once I get home.”

Webby nearly dropped it when Lena returned her phone, so excited she was.

“Okay!”

They exchanged goodbyes, and as Lena withdrew into the woods she looked surreptitiously over her shoulder just in time to catch Webby at the tail end of a pirouette as she danced up the steps of her farmhouse.


	9. Concoctions, of Potions and Otherwise

### Concoctions, of Potions and Otherwise

The truck came with the sunrise, right on time this morning just like every other. The sky was giving over to a soft purple light and the rising sun lit the underside of the clouds in a vibrant, glowing pink. The land was still dark and as the truck trundled over the uneven dirt path its taillights bobbed up and down in the dark like large, slow fireflies.

Attached to the hitch of the truck was a trailer, low to the ground and jostling its contents with every bump on the path. Boxes slid over the surface, colliding against each other and the black metal rail of the trailer. Each box was labeled with neat, precise handwriting: name, date, address.

This was the backbone of Starduck Valley’s economy. The morning pick up was as much a herald of the new day as a rooster’s crow, the knock of its engine and the rickety clatter of its trailer familiar to seasoned farmers. It was caked with ancient mud, coating the worn, white paint up to its windows. Inside, a driver and passenger sat in gray, threadbare seats.

Pomeroy clutched his clipboard with one hand, the other running down the list. He mumbled, squinting in the low light, the tip of his pen flicking off smart little checks next to each name as he went down the list. Inside each little check box on the page was a groove, made by the pen marks Pomeroy had left from the paper that had been used the day before. And that paper had the same grooves from the paper the day before that. And so on and so on. He made his next check mark, the tip of his pen sliding into the groove of the previous day and the day before that.

Some people would find the routine to be tedious. Some people, Pomeroy believed, just don’t appreciate the certainty that comes when you know tomorrow will be much like today.

The truck lurched, heaving Pomeroy up against the door. He adjusted his glasses and shot a glare at the driver, who failed completely to notice it. Old Man Shepard was Old Man Shepard to... well... everybody, regardless of their relative ages. And though he was old by many standards, he was still sharp-eyed and steady with his hands and he had been driving through roads and dirt paths for as long as anyone could remember. His truck was a legend to farmers all through the valley, able to make daily trips to their farms no matter the weather, churning through mud and plowing through snow and lighting the way through driving rain all while hauling the goods that kept the valley going.

As a result, Old Man Shepard was someone everyone knew to keep on the good side of, even Pomeroy, who — town legend has it — once caused a sunflower to wilt by glaring at it hard enough. 

So Pomeroy settled back into his seat and glared instead at the next name on his clipboard.

Vanderquack.

A new farmer, which meant a new route, which meant a new routine. Pomeroy was willing to dislike her for that reason alone but really, what was the point? She had been languishing for nearly a month now with no sign of improvement. If she was going to continue to fill her collection box with acorns and old fish she was never going to make it here in the long term. Let her washout on her own and they’ll be back to the familiar names and the familiar route. Problem solved.

They pulled up to Rook’s Hollow, the house a black silhouette against the slowly dawning sky, its windows dark. They left the truck idling next to the collection box. Pomeroy hung back and checked her off the list. Then he looked up and watched.

As Old Man Shepard failed utterly at picking up the box.

The driver reeled back and blinked. He turned to Pomeroy. “This is a job for two,” he said.

Pomeroy clicked his tongue. “Really?”

They flipped open the box and looked inside.

“I see,” said Pomeroy.

No mere scavenge today. The thing was heavy with actual _vegetables_. parsnips mostly, piled in a great heap. They appeared to be in good condition, black soil still clinging in clumps to the trailing roots. While the final assessment was yet to come, Pomeroy had done this enough times that he could do the calculations in his head. This was…

He made a disapproving sound. “I suppose a late start is better than not starting at all.” They lifted the box together. There was a schedule that he fully intended to keep.

They emptied it into an open crate, which was labeled “VANDERQUACK” in Pomeroy’s precise handwriting and added to the trailer. Old Man Shepard executed a complex turn to face the exit. The farmhouse lumbered into view of the rear view mirror. Pomeroy looked at it with an expression like the house itself had somehow inconvenienced him. Perhaps they were going to have to properly rework the route after all.

The truck departed, slightly heavier now, and the sun rose.

* * *

“I did work, and I was paid an amount that was commensurate to the amount of labor that I performed!” Webby said. “That’s never happened to me before!”

She drummed her hands on the tabletop giddily.

“Yeah, that’s the dream,” Dickie said, giving Webby a smile along with breakfast. She settled a stack of flapjacks at Webby’s table.

“I feel like I’m in command of my own fate! I could slay a dragon!”

“You want a refill on that orange juice, dragonslayer?”

“Yes please. And make it extra pulpy. I want to chew on the orange’s guts when I’m drinking.”

“Coming right up.”

“Is that a squashed spider on my pancake?” Webby said.

Dickie’s eyes widened. She nearly dropped the empty glass. “Oh no, not again hold on —” She looked at the plate and sagged with relief. “Webby! That’s pancake art!”

“Of a spider?”

“It’s you with four arms so you can hold a whole bunch of farm tools. Cuz you’re a farming master.”

“Oh, I see. I mistook the hair for mandibles. That’s so cute! Thank you! Is it possible to frame this? I want to frame it.”

“You can just take a picture, Webby.”

“Can I tag it? On social media?”

“Is that something you know how to do?”

“No.”

Dickie smiled. “I’ll get your drink.”

Soon Webby’s very first picture of pancake art joined other pictures of firsts. First crop of parsnips, first second crop of parsnips and also first potatoes, that blurry picture from the one time Webby thought she saw the glowing eyes of a slavering demon but it was a tree.

Tapping out of her gallery, the Pelican Town Credit Union app caught her eye.

When she was younger she lived in the mansion of the richest duck in the world. Money was kind of a thing that just… existed. It was everywhere, like oxygen or ancient artifacts from distant lands. It wasn’t hers, or Granny’s, but she had always been provided for, so money — or the lack of it — was not something that shaped Webby’s life the way it shaped the lives of literally 99% of the world population.

It wasn’t until she had come of age and wanted so desperately to make her own life that the reality of a bank account had hit her like a sledgehammer to her knees. She had a head filled with stories of self-reliance and unfathomable wealth achieved through hard work and hard work alone. And it just wasn’t… like that. She wasn’t even interested in unfathomable wealth. Just enough so that she could experience the life that she never had while she had been locked up in that mansion. Eat a hamburger, touch a skull, go to a sport. Regular stuff.

It turned out all that required _money_ and at least one of them will get you banned for life from the Anatidological Department of the Natural History Museum of Duckburg and was also the reason why there were a lot more “do not touch” signs on the exhibits these days. After a childhood cloistered away, Webby couldn’t help but want to be a bit more hands-on with the world around her.

She had found a job at a bank. Which was kind of ironic… and also miserable on a scale she had never experienced. It was nothing outrageous, no one specific thing had stood out as being unforgivably bad. It was, instead, a slow grinding away at the silver light of her soul. A corporate mandate of sales quotas and regimented breaks and a pressure to perform for the profit of people whom she would never meet, all for the promise of getting the attention of middle managers who looked at her and saw a small piece of a large machine. A piece that could be replaced.

All Webby had wanted was to be sheltered and fed and clothed, and to live a life she could look back on with fondness. Who had decided that in order to get those things, people had to subject themselves to such apathy and anonymous, off-hand cruelty? And it was like this everywhere?

It was different in the valley. It wasn’t like she had become self-sufficient, which was something she had imagined farmers often were, when she had thought of farmers at all. Her pay came from the town council. Lena and Violet had advised her. Dickie had kept her fed in the early days. And she wouldn’t even _be_ here if Granny hadn’t given her the deed to Rook’s Hollow.

If working at a bank had been a gradual experience in depersonalization, a slow-moving horror movie sequence of a rusty saw taken to the tethers that kept people together so that workers could feel isolated and miserable and meek, Starduck Valley was this place that allowed Webby to reconnect. Contrary to what she had learned in her days in the mansion, she wasn’t going to get by alone. She needed other people.

 _I could do this._ She had two successful harvests and a third on the way. The Credit Union app had all her earnings for her to see. It was still modest, but more than she had made before. Enough that she could envision renovating the farmhouse, insulating it in time for winter. She could think of herself staying here as long as winter. That was something.

The line of thought was interrupted when a glass was put in front of her.

“Thanks, I -- aaaah!” Webby gave a start as she looked up. The person who brought her the drink was definitely not Dickie. Webby narrowed her eyes. “Who are you and what did you do with Dickie?”

She put her elbow on the table and leaned forward. Classic interrogation pose.

“Uh. I’m Finley,” said a duck who had a face of curved white lines over iridescent green plumage. He wore a stained apron over a brown shirt and though he looked around Webby’s age, there was something in his eyes and the sag of his shoulders that said he had seen more than his years suggested, and it had all made him very tired. “I work in the back. I had to come out and give you your drink because Dickie locked herself in the walk-in freezer.”

“Oh.” Webby looked past him, beyond the bar. “Do you... think you should get her out?”

Finley closed his eyes and let out a long, drawn out breath. “Okay,” he muttered and walked away.

“Nice to... meet... you...” Webby said to his receding back, to no acknowledgement.

She looked at her orange juice and shrugged.

A minute later, she heard a heavy metal door open and close somewhere out of her view. Then Dickie was walking across the saloon and waving. “Hey! So, what’d I miss?”

“You okay?” Webby said. “Sounded like you were having trouble with the freezer.”

“Happens all the time,” Dickie said breezily.

“Does it? I met Finley. He seems... nice.”

Dickie nodded. “Right? Gigi stuck him with me the last time she was here. He’s one of the Woods boys, lives out on a ranch at the edge of town with his family. His mom does these casseroles that are, like, you know, it’s a good thing she decided to sell livestock instead of food cuz wow I’d be out of a job. And Fin’s good too! He can put out a grease fire like nobody’s business and he has a forklift license! I didn’t even know that back when I tried to cook the world’s largest pancake on the town square last summer but, uh, good thing he did!”

“So you keep him pretty busy.”

“Yeah, the little guy’s a trooper. What’ve you been up to while I was taking a tour of the cold room?”

“Just… thinking about some future stuff.” Webby thought back to her farm. “I still think the crow’s nest is a good idea.”

Dickie put one hand on her hip. “The what? Never mind. Say, you know, it’s great you’re getting the hang of this whole farming shindig but don’t forget there’s a whole town here. It’s not just the Snowdrift. You gotta live, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“For sure this place is great. I make little origami swans from the napkins.” She gestured at a neighboring table with a sad little folded disposable paper napkin that was utterly unsuited to origami but could _conceivably_ be a bird. “Did I tell you about karaoke night? There’s karaoke night. I’ll get you a pamphlet. Ack! Talking up my place too much. Sometimes I’m such a great promoter it frightens me. Let’s get back on track! What I meant to say is that you should get to know this place more. It can’t be all farming for you.”

“There’s also the fishing.”

“Oh, if you like fishing you should check out the Night Market.”

“Night Market?”

“This place is serious about its festivals. There’s, like, one every other month. Night Market’s in winter. Lots of rare stuff for sale, deep sea fishing activities, the crushing depths of the ocean pressing on you from all sides in a submarine.”

“Neat!”

“The Starduck Valley Fair is popular,” said Dickie. “Especially for farmers. Big contest for who can make the best crop. I mean, personally I think, you know, corn is corn, right? As long as you can eat it. I probably shouldn’t be saying that since I’m the cook? Ignore me.”

“Is that coming soon?”

“No, that’s like, September. The big spring thing is the Flower Dance.”

“Okay,” Webby said between chewing her breakfast. “Flowers. Dancing. Both are nice.”

“The people of the town go deep into the woods,” Dickie said. “Wear these, like, special white dresses and flower crowns, choose a partner and dance to folk drums.”

“Sounds kind of pagan.”

“Could be!”

“Do we ritually disembowel someone to bless the earth? Preferably while wearing masks that display our allegiance to a local fertility god?” Webby’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute, aren’t the sacrificial offerings usually the newcomer to town who came from an urban lifestyle that leaves them ill-equipped to confront the ancient customs rooted in cycles of life and death? Does that mean _I’m the sacrifice?_ ” Webby said with obvious excitement.

Dickie gave her a searching look. “Oh, wow, nobody does _that_. Not since I’ve been here at least. It’s just a dance. There’s a bulletin board by the general store with a calendar of festivals. They also sell copies in the store. If you pay them, their next edition will include your birthday.

“Why would I put my birthday on a calendar?”

“I don’t know, so people know to give you stuff?” Dickie said. “I did. I love getting _and_ giving stuff. An increased chance of surprise parties.”

Webby frowned. “I mean, someone gets your birthday and next thing you know they’ve found your address, know your favorite foods, collect saliva samples while you sleep...”

“Okay,” Dickie said. Her words came out slow and carefully chosen. “That’s a lot to think about.”

Webby managed a small, self-conscious smile. Sometimes it was easy to show a little _too_ much of herself.

“Sorry. Sometimes I just, you know, blah, words come out.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine,” Dickie said. A raised voice from the bar caught her attention. She turned back to Webby with a small, wry smile. “I have to pour something, probably. Keep it in mind.”

The rest of Webby’s breakfast was spent in contemplative chewing. Once she had finished and said her goodbyes to Dickie, she stepped out. Against the sun she donned her straw hat. The center of Pelican Town was a broad cobblestone plaza. There were gaps in places and weeds grew from the cracks. It was dominated by the Snowdrift on one corner and the general store on the opposite. There was a shaded pavilion with empty picnic tables of rusted metal and heat-warped wood. Beyond that was a path that led over a bridge and to the beach. East past the Snowdrift was the blacksmith’s and Violet’s library and north beyond the general store was the path that led up to the mountains where the Sabrewings lived. Sprinkled all throughout were the little homes painted in bright colors and it was all surrounded by forest, farmlands and the ocean. All far removed from the rest of the world.

 _It wouldn’t be_ completely _unexpected for a sacrificial cult to make its home here._ Webby thought with more hope than she’d admit to aloud. She clapped her hands over her cheeks. “Focus, Webby,” she said, drawing a curious stare from a passer-by that she ignored. Instead, she made a beeline for the general store.

She had seen the bulletin board before. Mostly it was filled with requests. People she didn’t know asking for things she didn’t have. There was a bit of time when Webby would use the notes to tell stories to herself. Why did Flo need exactly one cherry? She needed it to top off her celebratory sundae commemorating her victory over grave robbers. Who were trying to steal her husband’s remains. He was buried with a map to the underground kingdoms, where strange creatures never seen by the Earth’s sun reign supreme.

More notes pinned to the board fluttered in the gentle breeze. Webby checked them. Flo was at it again. This time she needed three jars of wild honey.

“Good luck, Flo,” Webby said after deciding that the honey was a prized trade good for the underground kingdom and Flo was seeking to secure a treaty between them and the surface world.

She focused on the calendar, scanned the days, fingers running over the row of weeks.

“Hm,” she said. She flipped to the next month. And the next. And the next.

After determining Lena’s birthday was not listed, she scratched the underside of her beak. “It was worth a shot,” she said and turned away.

* * *

“Do you think I should use fertilizer?” Webby said. She stood on the edge of the cleared out land. These days she would turn her attention to the overgrowth once she had tended to her crops each morning. It took some doing, but she developed a system. Wooden posts were placed at regular intervals, from the edge of the overgrowth to as deep as Webby could take them. White cord had been tied to the posts so that a grid was formed. And she would clear the thicket one grid square at a time.

As she did the work, it gave her a sense of how much she could reasonably perform without wearing herself out. It would have been difficult to judge otherwise; and this allowed her to adjust the area of the grid accordingly until she had a rough but educated guess on how much time and energy it would take to uproot the plants. Short answer: a while.

She looked up from where she knelt on the earth. She had cleared out most everything inside this square of the grid and she was down to pulling up weeds.

Lena, leaning on the fence that bordered Webby’s farm, tilted her head and looked to one side thoughtfully. Under the sun, the shadow cast by her wide-brimmed hat gave Lena’s golden irises a cat’s-eye glow that Webby found herself staring at.

Finally, Lena shrugged. “The soil’s pretty good here,” she said. “I mean, really good. It’s doing a lot of the work for you, so I’d say no. Lifehack, though: there’s silt running off the mountains and pooling in the streams. You could just take a shovel and a wheelbarrow to the rill outside your farm and load up. Spread it around before planting and you’re good for a season.”

“Huh,” said Webby. “That’s good to know.”

“They’ll sell you stuff at the general store,” Lena said. “But if you’re really gonna go hardcore and give your plants the five-star treatment, you can catch a few fish from the river, grind them up, instant plant food.”

Webby made a face. “We can do that?”

“It’s organic.”

“Do I need a… fish grinder?”

“You just need a blender. And a lactobacillus bacterial culture, but that’s super easy to make. I use it for my garden. I can share some with you next time I come visit.”

The visits Lena made to her farm had very quickly become the highlight of Webby’s week. She lingered at the boundary line most times, and Webby wondered if she could just… coax Lena closer. Like a shy woodland creature. Which she kind of was, at least in Webby’s head. Materializing out from the branches and the leaves and lingering at the threshold of civilization.

They usually kept their conversations light, weather and well-wishes and some farming advice. Lena liked to slip in a barb or two and it kept Webby interested. She was more than the exasperated grove tender and Webby more than the blundering city girl. This new thing they had felt comfortable. Webby felt herself settle into this comfortable new groove, even as seeing Lena tugged at Webby’s insides. Like a fish on a line.

It was something Webby could hardly define. A weird kind of good-bad sensation like she had just stepped off a carnival ride. It didn’t matter that the conversation was about the best way to blend innocent sea creatures into paste. It made Webby shivery all the same.

It took the training of a spy to keep it all under wraps, so it was fortunate for Webby she had just that. Yes. Cool as a cucumber. Poker face.

She brought her garden spade down on her hand and yelped.

“You okay? Pink?” Lena said as Webby sat up and shook the pain off.

“I’m good, I’m good.” Webby said quickly. “I’m wearing thick gloves. Just. Uh. Daydreaming. Also it’s hot?”

“Yeah I guess,” Lena said. “You sure you're good? Want me to take a look at your hand?”

“Ah, no, it’s already feeling better.”

She spoke quickly to get the subject off her own clumsiness. “How do you know so much about plants anyway?” Webby stared at the earth she was excavating, not trusting to look at Lena without hurting herself again.

“A lot of trial and error, a lot of advice from books and magazines and websites. Pretty amazing what you can find if you have the patience to sift through the crap, you know what I mean?”

“You didn’t get any help from the town?”

Lena made a dismissive sound. “They didn’t even know I had moved in until months after the fact.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah. I was a squatter.” 

“You were just there and nobody knew?”

“The tower’s far from town,” Lena said. “And I’m pretty good at being unnoticed when I want to be.”

If that wasn’t a doorway to a whole host of other questions, Webby didn’t know what was. Resisting the urge to pursue the line of inquiry took all her willpower, her curiosity was boiling over. But she knew that if she pushed on certain topics too hard Lena would excuse herself. Friendly but distant. It had taken some trial and error of her own to keep Lena here this long. Still, she felt herself thrill at the tantalizing morsels of thoughts unspoken. Like, if Lena had hid herself from the villagers, but was showing herself to Webby, then that must mean something special! Probably. Maybe.

“You must have some pretty amazing crops of your own,” Webby said.

“I do okay. I mostly grow herbs though. Put ‘em in potions and teas and poultices. You know. The hocus-pocus, all that mess.”

Which was another thing Webby was feverish to ask Lena about. Witchcraft! What was it? What did it look like? Was she flying on broomsticks? Were there black cats and boiling cauldrons? Webby needed to know, but it felt like another one of _those_ subjects that would get Lena to leave. It was so unfair. How did she meet the most fascinating person on the planet and it’s also the same person who hates to talk about herself? It was never like that with —

Well.

They may have only recently met, but Webby was pretty sure that Lena also deserved to have an entire archive dedicated to her.

And Webby would be the archivist and —

She brought the spade down on her hand again.

“Ow!”

“Pink,” Lena said, exasperation and concern blending in her voice.

“I’m fine!”

“You won’t be if you keep this up. Maybe you need a break.”

“I don’t suppose you have a… magical potion of healing on you?” Webby said. “Ha ha?” she also said, in case she needed to tell Lena she was only joking.

Lena raised one eyebrow. Then she heaved herself over the fence, her long hair trailing behind her, a comet’s tail of white and purple. Slung over one shoulder, she had a messenger bag of rough canvas and leather straps. Glass clinked from within as she walked. Webby sat, watchful, as Lena approached.

When Lena bent down to take Webby’s gloved hand, she smiled. “I suppose I can part with a freebie.”

“W-what?” Webby managed. “You’re serious?”

Lena opened her bag. “I’ve got stuff that heals anything. Cuts, bruises, even broken bones. Don’t ask how it works. Magic. I market it as ‘Life Elixer’ but, you know, don’t die. Can’t help you with that. Also gives you energy. Like caffeine except you don’t feel like shit. Side effects include I have no idea. Do not consult your doctor.”

Webby could physically feel her eyes glitter. It hurt and it was magnificent. Lena’s bag was stocked full of glass vials. “Secret magic!” She cooed.

“Secret? Come on. It’s not a secret. This is how I make money.”

“You mean I could have asked you about your magic _all this time?_ ”

“Sure. What, did you think I was being cagey about it?” Lena said.

“Um. Weren’t you?”

“Not really. I just don’t make a habit of talking about myself.”

Webby’s mind raced. This was her chance.

“What else do you make?”

“It’s not like I have a catalog. I can whip up a few other potions on request. I can enchant metals. You know, magic rings or bracelets. It’s a pretty informal arrangement. I don’t exactly advertise. Now show me your hand.”

“Oh,” said Webby. “It’s not really hurt.” She took off her glove. “See? You know how you just say ‘ow’ even when something doesn’t hurt?”

Lena gave her a dry look. “I’m giving you a potion anyway, Pink. I don’t trust you not to hurt yourself and I can’t be around 24/7 for when you do.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be so -- I mean... Thanks. Can I… how much?”

“On the house.”

“I can’t just take your stuff for free,” Webby said.

“Okay. Then…” Lena looked at her carefully. “You’ll owe me a favor.”

Webby lit up immediately. “I’ll be bound to an oath with a witch?”

“I mean sure if that’s how you wanna put it.”

“I do! I really do! Do I get cursed if I don’t honor it? What variety of amphibian would I turn into?”

Lena broke into a smile. “Can’t give away all my secrets, Pink.” She extracted a bottle from her bag and set it down next to Webby. It was... pink. Lena stood up. “I gotta go. A girl can’t watch you farm all day. See you next time, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah! Thanks for dropping by! And the potion! Thanks for that!”

Webby waited until Lena disappeared from sight. And once she did, Webby grabbed the bottle by its neck and ran up into the farmhouse. She slammed the door behind her and hopped in place, making a sound like a boiling kettle as she screamed through her clenched teeth.

“I have a magic potion! From Lena! I’m never going to use it! I’m never going to get hurt ever again! Or is it better if I — no, no, I’m keeping this.” She turned in place before finding a shelf that held Lena’s tea set, which she had yet to return.

Later, later.

Webby stretched. Her muscles ached terribly. She hoped at some point she’d get used to the work.

Still, it was good progress today. She had cleared out one more square of land, added a few more trees to the lumber pile, had a nice talk with Lena, asked Lena to that spring dance, got a…

_Wait, was I going to ask Lena to the spring dance?_

It was a lightning bolt of a thought but it felt right. A puzzle piece that found its place. It also felt like a somersault into a pool of sharks, all beauty and grace but sharp teeth and blank eyes with unreadable intentions. It was an adrenaline shot and a horror movie basement. Exciting, unknown.

_Next time._

She needed to talk to someone about this. Anyone. She was bursting with words and excitement that all tripped over each other. Maybe she could tell Murder of Crows. It always listened.

Giving the potion on its shelf one last look, Webby was out the door, leaving it to swing shut behind her.


	10. Library Code of Conduct

### Library Code of Conduct

When she was a teen, there was a five-day stretch where Violet did not say a single word. Not even so much as a syllable. There was nothing wrong and she hadn’t even been aware she was doing it, but by the third day she decided to see how long she could make this period of silence last. Out of curiosity. When she finally responded to her father’s “good morning” on the morning of the sixth day, she made a sound like the rusty hinges of the door of an abandoned barn.

Looking back, it was a time of absolute peace and she thought of it fondly, the way other people might think of a memorable summer vacation.

People called Violet anti-social and she supposed in the strictest sense of the word this was apt. She did not seek out situations where she would socialize, and often skirted around the edges of it. She didn’t dislike people, she simply did not talk to them. No one would assume that someone who never talks to fire hydrants disliked public utilities. People were a vital component to any functioning society and she was glad for their existence, she simply didn’t make a big deal about it.

Moving out to the countryside was a radical change of pace from Duckburg, but it wasn’t like she was leaving any friends behind. At most, she had a few acquaintances from the Junior Woodchucks that she had mostly fallen out of touch with as she became more senior than junior. Mostly she missed the library. Whatever else could be said about the city’s patron and owner, he at least believed in the value of a good library.

Pelican Town had a library that was in a sad state when she arrived. Run by a decrepit sort well into retirement, half-plundered by some previous steward, much of its shelves were taken up by arcane books of agriculture. And while Violet could recognize the importance of this sort of knowledge, there was something to be said about diversifying the library’s catalog.

It was hardly remarked upon when Violet took over. By then she had already volunteered there for several years and once she came of age it was a natural choice. There was not much need for a formal education, a masters degree in library and information science was not considered a prerequisite for maintaining the collection in the Pelican Town Community Library.

The place saw modest use. There was an informal schooling system for the very few children — no one came to the valley to start a family — of Pelican Town and the teacher would hold class there a few hours every weekday morning. At the end of the day, she would take care of any outstanding deliveries. This mostly meant knocking on doors in town, though she occasionally took the hidden path to Lena’s tower.

Perhaps another person might find that life meager, living with parents, occasionally burning down the shed behind the house in the pursuit of confirming a theory. But Violet had few wants in life. She could exist indefinitely on food, shelter, access to books and a minimum of outside interruptions. While small, the Pelican Town library was still a part of a larger library network that allowed Violet to order the more esoteric tomes necessary to further her research. They were heavy things that arrived in special courier bags with the rest of the mail and when she dropped one of these books onto the counter of the library it would go _thunk_ on the solid wooden surface in a most satisfying way.

Which is what Violet did today. Another slow day meant more time for reading up on…

Ah. A book of theories pertaining to alternate dimensions accessible only through mystical means. She had looked forward to this.

Once upon a time Violet’s field of study was more mundane. That had changed upon meeting Lena and learning of her nature. What secrets lie hidden within the ever unfolding lotus flower of reality? What occult underpinnings serve as the engine for the universe? Violet had studied the stars and the principles of physics. Yet it was recondite teachings of magic that would pierce the veil and spill the light of knowledge across the foyer of existence, exposing the things that held the levers of the universe to —

The entrance door slammed open.

“Hey Vi,” Lena said, walking in and looking over her shoulder. “There’s a seagull outside eating part of a crab. It’s got an entire claw in its mouth! Here I recorded it.”

Violet blinked slowly and closed her book. “Ah, Lena. I was just thinking about how magical realms beyond our perception govern the fundamental forces of the universe.”

“Wow that sounds really boring. Look, the claw’s still twitching.”

“Most amusing.” Violet slid the book to one side and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “What, as they say, is up?”

“Just visiting.” Lena put her phone away and drummed her fingers and the counter.

“Would you like me to quote the data that shows that you ‘just visiting’ my library at this time and under these circumstances is so statistically unlikely as to render the scenario non-existent?”

Lena raised her hands in surrender. “Fine, you got me. I wanna borrow a book.”

“No delivery?”

“Yeah, well, this time I actually need it real quick.”

Violet, all business, clasped her hands behind her back. “Very well. What can I help you find?”

“Here,” Lena said, handing over a neatly folded sheet of paper. Violet opened it and read the tight, dashed-off spider-web script that Lena wrote in.

Violet’s brow drew together in thought. Ordinarily what patrons borrowed was their business.

“I confess I am confused,” she said after a while. “I thought your garden was going quite well.”

“What? It is, it’s fine!” Lena said at once. “I mean. Can’t a girl read up on some fundamentals?”

Violet considered Lena a shrewd and cautious sort. The Lena before her right now was not being very shrewd. She was being... awkward.

If it were anyone else Violet wouldn’t pry, but she cared about Lena. If at all possible, she would like to see the hermit find some peace of mind. Perhaps that made her a bit nosy.

“Very well,” she said. “I believe two of these titles are already checked out. I can put you on the waiting list. The only one I have available is the one concerning crop rotations.”

“You don’t have the fertilizer or composting books?” Lena said, her disappointment evident.

“One is checked out to another farmer. The other,” Violet watched Lena intently. “I believe, yes, the other Webbigail recently borrowed.”

 _Ah_.

There was barely a change in expression, but it was there, flickering over Lena’s face.

“Oh, okay!” She said. “That’s fine. I mean. Um. Yeah. Put me on the waiting list for both of those.”

Violet nodded, her expression placid. “Certainly. I suppose if Webbigail were to know you were interested, she would be happy to —”

“No!”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Share,” she concluded.

“Ha ha,” Lena’s voice trailed off. “I mean. She’s the new farmer in town, right? She needs to know that stuff otherwise… yeah let’s just not tell her. Don’t you — isn’t there some kind of librarian code of silence?” Lena’s voice pitched up in a plaintive whine. Her poker face was not actually that great.

“The only instructions I received from my predecessor was to hit the door real hard before I lock up, on account of it being warped by weather. But I suppose I can be discrete.”

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you,” Lena said.

Violet made a little sound and shrugged. “Shall I get you that book?” She always preferred to pull books herself. Less possibility of someone messing up her carefully arranged order.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“You must be planning quite an expansion of your garden,” Violet said as she navigated the shelves. “If you’re interested in crop rotation.”

“We could all stand to rotate our crops. Like, that’s just useful information for anyone to know. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Violet said. She returned with the book and Lena looked at her suspiciously.

“Why did you say ‘yeah’?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like, were you agreeing with me or was it a sarcastic kind of yeah or…” Lena’s voice trailed off as she looked at Violet. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“This is for Webbigail, isn’t it?” Violet said. She only had so much patience for subterfuge.

Lena made an effort to look aghast. “It’s not… it’s not _for_ Webby. It’s for _me_.”

Violet said nothing and just looked at her, steady, impassive.

“So I can tell Webby.”

“Interesting,” Violet said.

“She thinks I’m some expert farmer!” Lena said. She sagged over the desk. “Sure, for small stuff. She’s already cleared out more space than my entire garden and I don’t want to disappoint her or whatever. It’d be like making a puppy sad.”

“It’s rare that you take an interest in someone else’s opinion of you,” said Violet.

Standing up and collecting herself, Lena cleared her throat. “Well. We are basically neighbors, so whatever.”

“You can call her a friend if you wish, your tongue isn’t going to fall out if you do.”

Lena scowled at Violet. “It might.”

Violet gently took the book back. “Webbigail will not think less of you for not knowing these things.”

“Uh… are you saying that I can’t have that book?”

“I cannot in good conscience lend a book out to someone with ulterior motives,” Violet said.

“Okay, what the hell.”

“Worry not, I am sure you will find pretense for associating with Webbigail beyond educating her on the principles of agriculture.”

Lena looked up at the ceiling with exasperation. She groaned. “Whyyyy are you making it sound like that?”

“Like what?” Violet , on the other hand, had an _excellent_ poker face and was aware of it. Her expression was a demonstration of serene stillness. “You are friends are you not? Surely there need not be some tortured justification to meet?”

Lena squinted. Ordinarily, she might have argued the point out of sheer pride. That she didn’t was... interesting. “Don’t mindgame me, Sabrewing. I’m leaving, and that’s not because of anything you might have said.”

“If you say so. Should I remind you we’re doing tea tomorrow?”

“Psh. Who needs reminding?” Lena said as she backed out. “Yeah, nerd. Strap in for the best milk thistle tea you’ve ever had.”

“And yet I am the nerd,” Violet said.

“Don’t act like you’re insulted. Good _bye_.”

The door bounced off its frame when Lena closed it behind her. Fixing that was on Violet’s to-do list. She might have a carpenter for a father but she had taken on this library when it was decrepit, half-empty and slightly moldy. She’d be the one to put it back into proper order from the books down to the very last nail.

When she found time between all the studying, which she was eager to get back into.

She got a whole two minutes.

“Violet!” Webby slammed through the door. Violet set the book aside.

“Webbigail,” she said.

“Did you see the —”

“The seagull, yes, I have been reliably told that it is very amusing.”

“Yeah!”

Webby took a breath. Face flushed and sweating, she appeared to have been running.

“Busy day?” Violet said.

“Yes!” Webby said. She threw herself into a heap on Violet’s desk and heaved a great sigh. “I feel like my bones have been replaced with rubber. Also… sore.”

“You have done several weeks of intense manual labor and you simply feel fatigued and sore,” Violet said. “That is impressive.”

“Aw, it’s not that much.” Webby stood back up and rolled one shoulder until they could both hear something go _pop_.

“I assume you are here for knowledge?” Violet said.

“Yeah. Oh, is that an entire book about crop rotation?” Webby looked at the book Lena had left behind.

“You may find it useful,” Violet said. “And it is available.”

Webby reached out for it, then stopped. Violet watched her hand, paralyzed with indecision.

“I assure you it will not bite.”

That gave Webby a jolt. She jerked her hand away. “It’s just… I… actually came for something, uh, not farming-related.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “If you want to borrow _100 Best Knives_ again I’m afraid it’s checked out.”

“I. You know. Needed some…” Webby looked away and wrung her hands. “Other stuff. Do you have books on Starduck Valley folk traditions? Specifically the annual Flower Dance and alsoabookonhowtoasksomeonetoadancethanks!”

Webby clutched her hat, pulling the brim over both sides of her head.

This was torture, Violet decided. For both of them. She opened a drawer and produced several colorful brochures.

“The Pelican Town library also provides information printed by the Starduck Valley Tourism Board,” she said. She spread the pamphlets out in a fan across the counter. “All your questions about local tradition can be answered here.”

“Is there ritual sacrifice?” Webby said.

“No.”

“Are you suuuuuuure?”

“It was the first thing I checked upon coming to town. There was a local cult that gained a small following here back in the 19th century but from what I researched they were mostly concerned with a highly ritualized series of calisthenics.”

Webby’s beak twisted in a confused expression. “Like, exercise? Or yoga?”

“They believed that proper stretching was the solution to ‘colicky pains, inward weakness, immoral vices and death’.”

“Well I was with them up to the last part.”

“Yes,” said Violet. “You can imagine how its adherents reacted once it turned out they hadn’t unlocked the secrets of immortality. The cult did not outlive its leader very long.”

“But no sacrifices?”

“I’m sorry.”

“At least there were pirates.”

“One mustn’t be greedy.”

“But I can hope!” Webby said.

“There is always hope,” said Violet. “Now, about this ‘asking a person to a dance’ book…”

Webby nodded, her bangs bobbing under her hat. “Right, if there’s a guide about, hm, how to ask a casual acquaintance if they’d like to participate uh, with the reader specifically in a hypothetical special occasion. The more scenarios the better and if there’s some kind of flowchart that shows how to respond to a wide range of possible reactions that would be _fantastic_. And an index! I feel like a good index would be just what I need. Anyway. Is there a book like that?”

People tend to assume that because Violet is quiet and withdrawn, she was not tuned in to social nuance. And while some particulars might escape her, it was not as if learning was something she didn’t actively pursue literally all the time. Sometimes she made mistakes but that was life. Fail now, learn, be better next time. 

Her limited experience suggested this was a situation to handle with some delicacy.

“I can offer you some books on common dating etiquette,” Violet said gently. “I cannot speak to their efficacy myself, but perhaps that will give you a solid foundation to build on?”

Webby blinked rapidly, and didn’t say anything. Violet expected some disingenuous denial or the kind of resigned look of someone who had just been read like an open book — it was a vice of Violet’s, that she secretly enjoyed that kind of look — but the blank and sincere confusion she was seeing now, well, that was something.

“Oh no,” Webby said, exhaling with a slight laugh. “No, no no no. I’m not asking her out on a _date_.” She caught herself and her eyes snapped to look into Violet’s, hoping, perhaps, that she did not catch the slip she had just made. Violet gave her nothing except for that very excellent poker face. Webby set her chin firmly as if she were bracing for a punch, and soldiered on. “I just want to ask if… _they_ would like to go to a dance for fun. It’s not a date thing.”

“It is a deficiency on the part of the English-speaking book market that there is a dearth of material on the topic of how to broach the subject of platonic engagement with traditionally romantic events with a compatriot.”

“I-i-i-is the Flower Festival, uh, considered romantic?” Webby said. She put a hand to the base of her throat.

“I understand it is less so these days than in the past,” Violet said. “But it is a dance that takes place after the first planting of the season. I am sure I do not need to draw a line between traditions of fertility celebrations and —”

“That’s so frustrating though!” Webby said with a heated tone. She spoke rapidly. “Why does it have to be tangled up in all these expectations? I just want her to… to… I just think she’s really fun to be around! And I think it would be a really great idea if we had a chance to hang out more often, especially when I’m not elbow deep in dirt. Because I always have fun when we’re together and… I don’t know, I think she does too, although it’s hard to tell sometimes. Whatever! I just think it would be cool if we went and had a good time and that’s really all I want!”

Violet nodded. “That seems sufficient.”

“What?”

“You hardly need a book to guide you, Webbigail. What you said just now seems a solid enough thesis to stand on its own.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Indeed.”

“Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Violet’s eyebrow quirked up. “I can hardly say either way since I obviously don’t know this mystery individual.”

“Oh! Right! Yes!”

“However I can tell you that there is only one way to find out, and you seem committed and sincere, and those are good qualities to have in such matters. Everything else is out of your hands, so try not to worry about them so much. You can hope.”

Webby scratched her beak and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. I’ve gotta try.” She snatched up the brochures on the counter top. “I’m taking these. Thanks Violet! Uh… I think... thanks, bye!”

“Yes, well, that is what I am here for, I suppose.” Violet said to an already empty library. The door creaked on its hinges at Webby’s sudden departure.

Violet waited, one hand on the cover of her book. Outside, she heard nothing but the ambient sounds of the village, the cry of a bird, possibly a well-fed seagull. She breathed in, a blend of old books and humidity and spring. At last. Peace.

Violet opened her book, settled in, and read.


	11. Break Upon the Anvil

### Break Upon the Anvil

The valley mountains were all gentle slopes and verdant green with the exception of the abandoned mines. Even after decades of inactivity it remained a gray scar carved into the mountainside. The main entrance, propped open by timber that sagged under the weight of the mountain and the years, overlooked a flooded quarry. Erosion caused the earth here to sag down the side of the mountain and it carried a part of the mine track with it. An overturned minecart lay moldering nearby, exposed to the elements, wheels fused to the axles with rust. The heavy hand of time had broken the machines and smoothed away the exposed edges of the earth. A wind passed through the mine entrance and sent ripples across the flooded quarry that lapped gently on the opposite side.

The entrance to the mine had been blocked off, once, long ago. The criss-crossed beams of timber had rotted into a heap, the metal warning sign tarnished beyond legibility. Whatever lay beyond the immediate entrance of the mine was cloaked in a thick, choking darkness and there was a wind that rushed out from it and brought the scent of lichen and stone.

Someone had tried, long ago, whether out of sentiment or a desire to see more color in the scarred escarpment. They had tied strings of colorful pennants over the mine entrance and anchored them across the water and onto various mine fixtures. Wind and storm had snapped away some of the thin, triangular bolts of color, but those that remained flapped stubbornly, and their reflections on the quarry lake bobbed in time with them.

A knot of rails crisscrossed the basin and sunk into the lake with a single stitchline of rail and tie snaking down the mountain, away from the mine and towards Pelican Town. And it ended at the foreman’s mansion.

There, Tyrian Sabrewing looked up from where he leaned against Violet’s shack, freshly reassembled after her last experimental mishap.

Ty had an idle dream of restoring the mine somehow. Not out of any desire to start it back up. Even the idea of it made him shudder. But it was a made thing, assembled with muscle and machine. And it was sad to see a thing that had blood and sweat put into it left to decay. It was an impulse he had for as long as he could remember, and it was why he liked to restore cars as a hobby and fix homes as a profession. He would be the first to admit that he wasn’t much use when it came to envisioning brand new structures. It’s why Violet’s shack was a pretty unassuming box with a thin tin roof (it was a good thing his daughter was not overly concerned with appearances).

Things that had been built and then neglected though, ah, that was a framework he could build upon. And improve. It was what had drawn him to the mansion in the first place. He had a before and after picture of it as his computer wallpaper. It was a heady, exhilarating time, restoring it. And with the old farmhouse occupied once again, he anticipated another project he had long hoped to get started on.

Until then, he could lean against a nice, firm wall, look up into the mountains and think about the things he can do.

Ty was a big man with broad shoulders and hair in a tight flat top style. It was easy for people to form a first impression of him that assumed that he was more muscle than brains. That he could take raw materials, cut them down, fit them together and create a sturdy shelter with practiced ease never seemed to be considered as evidence of the contrary.

This meant that his husband was often the one the town relied on for big decisions. Leaving Ty to more trivial matters. Like making sure the waters that cascade down the valley don’t overtake the town’s levees. Shoring up the reinforcements that prevented mudslides. The easy stuff.

It left him with moments like these, when he could enjoy the changing of the weather and watch the trees ripple with the wind pouring down the mountains. Gradually, echoing off of the valley, was the putter of an old engine. Ty shifted where he stood, and waited.

Soon he heard footsteps approach, soft on the lawn.

“Your meeting finished?” Ty said without looking away from the mountains.

“Finally.”

Indy rounded the shack. He settled in, leaning into Ty’s big arm like it was made to prop him up. And who was Ty to say otherwise?

“I am so glad these things are quarterly,” Indy said into the fabric of Ty’s shirtsleeve.

“Aw, they’re not so bad.”

“You don’t go to them.”

“I know, it’s great.”

Indy cuffed Ty on the shoulder and chuckled.

“Didn’t we move out here to get away from meetings?” Ty said.

“Hm. Did we? I thought it was for the location.”

“A location where there weren’t meetings.”

“I don’t think the realtor said anything about that.”

“Damn,” Indy said. “We really need to remember to ask the important questions.”

“Next time, hun.”

They stood like that for a while, braced against one another and the shack. A spring wind, still carrying a touch of chill in it, caused them to huddle together. Wispy clouds drifted across the sky like feathery down floating on a lazy river.

“Think there’s gonna be a next time?” Indy said.

“Hm?”

“I mean, do you think we can do better than all this?”

Ty draped his arm around Indy and squeezed his shoulder. “Anything can happen.”

“Uh oh.”

Ty rolled his eyes at his husband’s pessimism.

“Good things can happen. I can feel it.”

“Yeah?”

“In the air,” Ty said, nodding. “I can feel it in the air. That warm spring air with just the right bite in it. It reminds me of when we met.”

“We met in winter.”

“I remember feeling warm.”

Indy looked up at him, sidelong, eyebrow raised and mouth twisted in a sly smile. “Shut up,” he said.

Ty leaned in and locked eyes with Indy. “Make me.”

And both of them jumped when the shack behind them shuddered under the force of a series of blows.

“Chandrasekhar’s sake, I am at my limit!” Violet shouted from inside. “I can hear _everything_ , fathers! Please!”

“Oops,” Ty said. Indy shot him a wry, unimpressed look.

“Go to your room!” Violet said.

* * *

Spring was a strange season. It seemed to sneak up so gradually and by the time it was nice enough to enjoy, it gave way to summer. If Lena could grab time with both hands, she’d probably pin it down around springtime. Sure, autumn was nice, but there was something about the spring that was so fleeting that she wished she could hold onto it a little while longer.

Her bees, at least, made the most of their time. She had tended to her flowerbed and the bees took to the colorful blooms well. Add to that the wildflower pollen they brought in from all over the forest and she would soon have a wide variety of honeys to jar and store.

They were industrious little things, buzzing as they scrambled over flowers and then flying in a bobbing, ponderous path back to the hive.

One swung a little too wide, and fell into Lena’s lap where she sat in the garden, reclining on a rough-hewn wooden chair she leaned against the side of the tower. Lena looked down at the bee trying to right itself, a dusting of pollen scattered over her dark purple dress.

Gently, Lena cupped her fingers under the bee. It tumbled into her palm, legs wiggling in the air. The vibrations of its wings tickled.

“You never stop, do you, girl?” Lena said. The bee rolled over and stood up. It brushed its forelegs over its antennae “All your short life you just follow the queen’s orders.”

She crooked one finger down and ran it carefully through the bristly fur of the bee’s back. It spread its legs as if bracing itself.

“You ever want anything more?” Lena said. “Or can you even imagine wanting more?”

Shockingly, amazingly, against all reason, the bee had no answers to give her. Lena stretched her hand out it lifted off, weaving through the air.

“Dumb bug.”

Lena brushed at the pollen to little effect before returning to her book, putting a pencil to the yellow pages. Poetry went hand in hand with magic, both spoke will and intention into existence and Lena had practiced one for nearly as long as she had done the other. Whether or not she had ever _improved_ from when she was a surly teen with frankly a lot to get off of her chest was up for debate since she would submit her work for review only after the literal end of the world and even then someone would have to pry her journal from her dead fingers.

But it was a good way to meditate and reflect, and the day was just right for it, and you had to use spring for this because spring never lasted long enough.

She was not so engrossed that she could not hear, some time later, the sound of someone pushing through the forest. She closed the book, tucked the pencil into its spine and pushed it out of sight in the tall grass that grew at the base of the tower. She brushed at the pollen again. They clumped together, a little constellation against the dark fabric.

“Hey Pink,” Lena said without looking up. “Ready?” She raised her eyes. Past the fence, at the bottom of the hill her tower sat on, she saw Webby, looking up at her. For her part, Webby was grinning broadly, naked excitement on her face.

She had a durable-looking canvas backpack slung over her shoulder and when she moved to wave, it swayed heavily and its contents clattered. Strapped between the bag and her back, sheathed in folded lengths of leather, were several blades of the farming and fighting variety. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

Lena smiled lazily. “I guess if this is what you’re into.”

Webby made a high pitched sound that suggested yes, this was what she was into. Lena had heard the expression ‘chomping at the bit’ but this was the first time she saw it in action. If Webby had something in between her teeth right now she’d likely saw right through it, she was so excited.

Inside her tower, Lena grabbed a bag of old knives, dull and rusted. She had always meant to take them into town or do _something_ with them, but some other chore always knocked it off the top of the list.

Before she walked out the door, she came to a stop and stood there in thought. She turned back.

A few minutes later Lena emerged with a bag of knives and another bundle, all swaddled up in a bright red cloth. She made her way down to the bottom of the hill, black dress rustling over grass and leaves.

“You good with that?” She said to Webby. “Looks heavy.”

Webby hefted the bag, gripping it by the straps that dug into her shoulders. “It is, but I’m good. I used to hike up Killmotor Hill with weights strapped to my back.”

“I’m not up on my famous hills that people should know by name,” Lena said. She nodded down a direction that would take them along the river and the two of them headed that way. “But I take it that’s one of them?”

And thus Webby launched into an exhaustively comprehensive description of a tall lump of dirt. Lena had seen it coming, like a painfully obvious tripwire placed in her path, but she tripped it anyway. Webby could fill the air with chatter like nobody’s business. Sure, Lena barely listened to the actual words, but it was good background noise as she picked her steps over roots and stones. Like birdsong. Or a babbling brook. It was nice.

Not far from the tower was a broad, flat boulder that overlooked a bend in the river. It must have rolled off the mountains thousands of years ago. Or millions, why not. Time likes to go big when geology is involved. Whenever it showed up, it sat by the riverside and time and weather had smoothed it down.

“Here we are,” said Lena.

“It looks like an anvil!” Webby said. She jogged past Lena and put her hand on the flat of the rock. Veins of quartz and mica flecks sparkled in the sun.

“Mm hm,” Lena said. “I like it here.” She looked away as if even that much was some kind of intimate confession. “It’s, uh, nice.”

“Nice?” Webby said.

“Yeah. I mean… I’ve been out here for so long. Nobody goes this far into the forest. But you know. It’s cool to share these things that I’ve found.”

Webby’s smile somehow widened.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Lena said. “This should be good for what we need right?”

“For sure.” Webby unslung her backpack and heaved it up, getting both her hands underneath it. The bag went _thud_ on top of the rock. Then she removed the blades strapped to her back. A sword nearly as tall as she was, a scythe with a sun-bleached wooden haft, a hatchet and a sickle that had been attached at her hip. She placed them all on the rock, then hopped up on top.

“Oh, it’s warm!” she said.

“Yup. You can lay here on a sunny day,” Lena said. “Like a lizard.” She followed Webby up, and sat cross-legged, setting her bag of knives in front of her and the red bundle to one side.

Webby opened her bag and brought out heavy bundles wrapped in towels. She unwrapped one, revealing a black, rectangle stone the size of a small paperback book. She produced more stones, each different in some subtle way and wrapped in cloth to keep them from cracking against one another as she walked.

“That’s a lot of whetstones,” Lena said.

“The right tool for the right situation,” said Webby. She placed her sword across her lap, still in its scabbard. Her selection of whetstones were spread out between her and Lena and she picked a flat, tapered one. “Granny was really into that. I’ve been sharpening swords before I was able to lift one.”

“Hope Granny invested in band-aids.”

“With rainbows and shooting stars,” Webby said. “I still get nostalgic every time I find them in the pharmacy section. So. What’d you bring?”

Lena picked gingerly through her bag and picked up an old pruning knife with a thick wooden handle.

“Ooh,” said Webby, her eyes tracing the short, curved blade. It was pitted with age and the dull metal caught the sunlight.

“Don’t sound too excited. I showed it to Gabby once and she said it wasn’t even worth salvaging.”

“Aw!”

“I mean she’s right. It’d be cheaper to replace the whole thing than to get her to restore the blade, let alone put an entire new blade in. I just hold onto it because… I don’t know. It’s my favorite knife.”

“Believe me, I understand what it means to have a favorite knife. May I?” Webby held both hands out, palm up.

It occurred to Lena she had only watched Webby come to grips with skills unfamiliar to her as she spent two months salvaging the old farm. Cradling the old blade, Webby was in her element in a way that Lena hadn’t seen before.

“It’s nice,” Webby said, turning the knife over in her hands. “Well, she’s not wrong. Just sharpening it wouldn’t do any good.” She reached into her bag again and brought out two bottles and a towel.

Webby had wanted to repay Lena. It was so touching that she couldn’t say no. It took some brainstorming, but it turned out that the one thing Webby knew was how to keep a knife sharp. Far better than Lena’s meager metalworking skill could do. So they arranged a time and a place.

“This spot is perfect. It’s no forge. Back in the mansion I had a whole forge,” Webby said. She tipped one bottle onto the towel, soaking it in water. She ran it up and down the blade, cleaning with a practiced hand. “I mean, it wasn’t mine obviously, but no one else was using it. After I moved out I had a little studio apartment. The landlord didn’t allow this kind of thing.”

“Shameful.” Lena said gamely. They probably could have done this at the farm, but Lena had decided that Webby needed some time away from that place. The girl was running herself ragged there.

“Ha ha. Yeah. But I really needed that security deposit. He kept it anyway.”

“Brave of him, considering how familiar you are with sharp objects. You should go back and make him hurt real bad,” Lena said.

“Oh. It’s not worth it. Especially if it meant getting out of that lease early. If I’m going to have a grudge I should have one that’s really incredible, you know?”

“I’m all about being petty, but yeah I get it.”

Lena reclined on her side on the warm rock and watched Webby apply oil to the tarnished blade. It gleamed, slick and bright as Webby cleaned it diligently.

“So you lived in a mansion?” Lena said. “You’re kind of something else, huh Pink?”

“It was pretty terrible. It was full of so much stuff. I thought that was amazing at the time. But looking back… I don’t know. I guess it sounds spoiled to complain about it, but… okay, I think we’re ready.”

Lena shuffled over to Webby’s side as Webby chose another whetstone, smaller and easier to handle. The pruning knife gleamed in the light. Not like new, but the rust and tarnish had been cleaned off and there was a dark sheen to it.

“Holy shit,” Lena said. “It looks great.”

“And once I’ve sharpened it, it’ll cut great.”

Webby’s hand moved swiftly, the whetstone fitted into her palm. Each time she passed over the blade it made this silky, keening noise. A _shiiiing_ that sounded sharp and rang in Lena’s head. Slowly, she could see the dulled edge of her favorite knife turn into a silver gleam.

“Do you want to give it a try?” Webby said.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” Lena said.

“You can try one of the other knives you brought! Here, I can show you. It’s all about the angle and the motion…”

The hours went quickly as Webby talked. Lena found it easier to follow her lessons when there was something concrete to apply them to, and she brought some less sentimental knives with her to practice on. Webby made quick work of the pruning knife and Lena was grateful to have it back. The dagger was okay, but like Webby said, the right tools and so on.

Webby turned next to her farm implements, badly in need of attention.

“Those look like lost causes to me,” Lena said.

“Yeah. I can’t afford to replace them so I’ll do what I can. This axe is about as sharp as a baseball bat.”

As she worked, Lena looked to the sword lying by Webby’s side.

“How often have you used that?”

“Not as often as I would have liked,” Webby said. Her hand moved over the sword. “The only reason I’ve ever had to sharpen this thing was after using it on a training dummy. Or this old sofa I found on the sidewalk one time.”

“Sounds like you missed your calling, Pink,” Lena said. “You would have been at home in the old days. You know, knights and castle sieges.”

“I mean, sure that would be nice to visit, but I think I’d miss having indoor plumbing. I always kind of wanted to be an explorer, I guess. Or… sometimes. Someone who would make her mark on the world.”

“We all think we’re going to be astronauts or whatever when we’re kids.”

“What did you want to be?” Webby said.

Lena couldn’t help the short, sharp bark of laughter and Webby’s eyes snapped up at the sound. How do you say _all I wanted was to be alive and free_ around someone like Webby? Even the slightest hint would get her to dig incessantly. Like she did with the weeds at her farm. But Lena had briar thorns over her heart and she liked them there. It kept people away, it kept her safe.

“Oh, you know,” she said with an affected pitch in her voice and a wave of her hand. “Rock star, probably. Travel the world, be a menace, vandalize things, be a voice for a disaffected generation, wear dark clothing.”

“You got the clothes at least.”

“One out of a bunch is something,” Lena said.

“Is it enough?”

Lena closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. The breeze caught the underside of her hat, flipping the brim up almost playfully so the sunlight filtered through her eyelids. The wind caught the long braid of her hair too and she felt the weight of it swing off the back of her head. The sound of the river, the trees and the valley wall that rose up before her and the sky, all the sounds and the smells and the sensation of the cool air with that slight edge of humidity in it, the promise of the coming summer.

“Absolutely,” she said. And meant it. She had nothing to look forward to except for a meager life in a crumbling tower and obscurity. It was more than she could hope for as a child. It felt like tempting fate to ask for anything else. Lena wanted fate to pass her by. Forget she was there.

She shook her head clear and looked sheepish. Eager to move on from the subject, Lena reached for her final knife. A long, single-edged blade with large serrations.

“So, how do you sharpen this one?”

“Oh!” Webby said. “A bread knife, I’ve done loads of those with Granny. I’ve got something for that. I’m pretty sure I packed it… here! Can I see it?” Soon, Webby was hunched over, flossing the teeth of the knife with a small rod.

Leaving her to it, Lena began cleaning up her side of the rock, bundling up all the sharp stuff the way Webby had shown her. Metal powder was scattered across her dress. Along with the pollen, it caught in the light of the sun like a Milky Way band against the black of her dress.

Webby’s fingers moved deftly, working quickly as she angled the knife this way and that. It wasn’t long before its serrations were gleaming again.

“Finished!” she declared. She inspected her work. “You now have the sharpest bread knife in the valley.”

“Just in time,” Lena said. She unwrapped the second parcel. In her lap was an oblong loaf of bread, a rich brown crust with diagonal scores running across it. Along with it was a small mason jar, its contents a dark amber. “Figured we could use a snack. Bread and honey. Care to put that knife to the test?”

“I stand by my work, _bring it on_.” Webby cleaned the blade and passed it to Lena handle-first.

And credit where it’s due, it bit into the bread easily, and soon Lena handed Webby a slice of bread with a spread of honey over it.

Webby took a bite and screamed with her mouth closed. “Thish ish delicioush!”

Wordlessly, Lena handed her a water bottle and Webby washed it down.

“Did you make this bread?” Webby said.

“Of course. Harvested the honey from my own bees, too.”

“That’s so good. You’re so good.”

Lena fought down warm fuzzy feelings. “Don’t sweat it, what are friends for or whatever.”

“Oh I’m gonna sweat it. This is so. Good. How do people even do this?”

“You’ll get there, Pink. It’s just bees.”

They ate in contented silence, in a moment that they fully existed in, as present as the trees around them, the rock beneath them and the clouds overhead.

“It’s hard to imagine,” Webby said. She finished off her slice and drank deep from her bottle. Then she lay down, surrounded by her sword, her scythe, her axe.

“What?” Lena said.

“Bees.”

“Bees,” Lena said levelly.

“Bees and honey and wheat and bread. Having control of my life to the point where I can… take the wild things around me and turn them into the accoutrements of civilization. Creating and sharing.”

“Didn’t you say you had survivalist training?”

“And I was stuck in one place with my overprotective Granny until I was 18. I was prepared for anything, but instead I got the same thing year after year. And now… I’m here.”

“Feels good?” Lena ventured.

“Feels good,” Webby said, agreeing. “I can’t put it in words.”

“I get it. I felt the same way when I came here. When —” _Stop talking about yourself you maniac!_ Lena’s beak snapped shut like a bear trap. She had managed to ignore the voice all day, which was probably a record, if that were a thing she bothered to count. Which she wasn’t. Lena wasn’t that kind of neurotic, just the kind that had a voice in her head that warned her if she let someone get too close.

She looked over. Webby was rapt. Lena shivered. “Ha ha. When… when you find a place like this, it’s, uh, really special! Right?”

Lena had a picture of herself as a sarcophagus, stone-lidded, meant to be closed for eternity. Even the slightest crack in the seal would let a hint of the rot within to leak out.

“I think it’s time we head back, yeah?” Lena said. “I mean, we did what we came here for.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Okay” Webby frowned, but a moment had passed them by and she got up from where she lay.

They cleaned up and hopped off the rock. If Lena weren’t preoccupied she might have been amused when Webby sank a couple inches into the ground from the impact combined with the heavy weight she carried on her back. Instead, Lena cleared her throat and led the way back to her tower.

There was a tightness in Lena’s throat that lessened when she could see her home. She hopped up the incline, her hands clutching the strap of her bag across her chest. She wrung it unconsciously.

“Thanks, Pink,” she said. “This was… a day.”

“Um. Yeah!” Webby said. “Lena?”

There was a shakiness in her voice that made Lena turn to face her, even as she felt the urge to retreat.

Webby looked _absurd,_ (vulnerable, insisted a yet quieter, kinder voice, like an echo that chased the meaner one) shifting from one foot to the other, looking anywhere that wasn’t directly at Lena, so suddenly bashful. A pack full of daggers and a sword and a scythe slung to her back, hands stained gray from metalworking and she looked as fragile as porcelain.

She was _sweating_. “So… I was just wondering. I mean, I had a lot of fun today! It’s always fun when we hang out.”

Lena watched her warily, and waited. She forced her hands to her side and they clutched reflexively at her dress.

“So… I was thinking,” Webby rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and gestured vaguely with her other. “It would be cool. You know. If we hang out at a place that isn’t like, a random spot in the forest? Not that it isn’t nice! Uh. It is. But. What I’m trying to say is maybe we could go to the Flower Dance? Together?”

The tightness returned to Lena’s throat, like a hand curling around her neck. _This is what happens. You let someone in, even a tiny bit, and they start to expect_ more.

Lena swallowed. “That, uh, sounds…” she couldn’t even find a lie to soften the blow. “Sorry, Pink,” she said. “But I’d rather not.”

Webby rocked back on her feet. “Oh. Okay. No, you’re right, that’s, psh. Boring. Totally. We can… do something else?”

“You… we already get together a couple times every week,” Lena said. She heard her own voice go up an octave. “That’s not enough?” She saw Webby blanch at the rise in her voice, more shock and surprise than anything else, but there was a little hurt there too.

_Keep pushing your luck and she’s going to find out what you are. And then what? You think she’s going to want to continue associating with a_ thing?

“Webby…” Lena forced her voice back down to something more conversational. “Look… that’s nice and all but what we’re doing… it’s not hanging out or, or, anything else. I just drop by sometimes, okay? That’s all. We’re not socializing or any of that stuff.”

“Stuff,” Webby echoed with a hollow tone.

“Yeah, Pink. Stuff.” Lena winced internally at the condescension in her voice. She hadn’t _meant_ it. Sometimes she really wished she didn’t sound so sarcastic. “Festivals, dances, they aren’t really my thing. Or… going out in general. Okay?”

_You put yourself at risk just visiting her farm. Really you should have seen this coming._ Lena bit down on her own tongue in annoyance.

“Sure,” Webby said. “Uh. Sure. Sorry, I, uh, sorry.” She took a step backwards. “I’ll just… see you when I see you?”

“Maybe, yeah…” Lena took a step back of her own, up to the tower. “Look, I’m really tired, Webby. Maybe we can talk about this some other time.” _Or not at all_.

Webby nodded and gave Lena a tight smile before spinning around and walking off into the forest.

Lena did not stick around to watch. She closed the door behind her and stood there, back against the rough wood, alone but for the sound of her breathing and the particles of dust that swirled in shafts of light that pierced the dark.


	12. Wildflowers

### Wildflowers

The thing about living a sheltered life was that there were so many opportunities to experience new things when she was older and more capable of appreciating them. Webby thought of these as _oh, so that’s what that feels like_ moments.

Like the first time she had an ice cream sundae. That was a good _oh, so that’s what that feels like_. Or that first hamburger. Or her first time exploring Duckburg.

Right now, she was sitting alone, slumped on a stool at a bar, nursing a drink and staring at the stains on the counter top and feeling very sorry for herself.

 _Oh, so that’s what that feels like_ , thought the part of herself that would never stop even when she wanted it to.

Somewhere on the periphery, Dickie was cleaning out a glass, studiously minding her business. Webby wondered if this was one of those bartender things. Ordinarily Dickie would have been chattering as she worked, but it seemed as if Webby’s desire to be left in peace radiated off of her strong enough to cause Dickie to back off. She had taken Webby’s order and left her to it.

Webby sighed into her glass. She wanted to pour herself into it, turn into something that didn’t feel things. Slosh around bonelessly at the bottom of a glass. She put the glass to her beak and upended it, tossing her head back. Then she brought the glass down on the counter with an audible thud.

So yeah. That’s what that felt like.

Things had gone on like this for an indeterminate amount of time before a shadow fell across her. Dickie leaned over Webby, placing both hands on either side of her.

“Okay, I actually can’t stand this. What’s the deal, Webster? Never seen you so down.”

“Leave me alone,” Webby said, trying to sound gruff. She kept her eyes fixed downward. “I don’t care about anything right now except getting another mojito and drowning my sorrows.”

“You know, it’s a virgin mojito.”

“What?” Webby swung her head up. “It’s not even alcoholic?”

“I’m gonna be honest, I’m not sure you’re old enough to drink. And that you didn’t notice really doesn’t help your case.”

Webby spluttered. “I am!”

“It’s not like you ever gave me identification.”

With a groan, Webby sat up and took out her wallet. She flipped it open for Dickie to inspect the card inside.

“Just barely, huh?” Dickie said. She stood up. “Alright. One real deal coming up.”

Webby sighed. “Don’t bother.”

“Aw, c’mon. It’ll be on me. If you need to drown your sorrows I’m not going to stand in your way. Everybody deserves to cut loose every now and then.”

“No… I don’t really want to cut loose. I just want to be sad.”

Dickie shrugged. “Probably the right call. It’s bad form to be drunk this early in the day.”

“Huh,” Webby said, nodding thoughtfully. It was early in the afternoon. Aside from Webby, the place was empty. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Getting all into a mood and being a sullen drunk doesn’t suit you anyway,” Dickie said. “You get a sense for people, you know? If you do this job long enough you can see what type of coping mechanisms they fall into. I don’t think you do the whole ‘drown your sorrows’ thing.”

“So how do I cope when I get ‘into a mood’?” Webby said archly.

“Hold on, I need to retreat into my mind palace and mentally visualize this scenario,” Dickie said, ignoring Webby’s theatrical rolled eyes. In retaliation, she made even more of a production of it, putting her fingers to her temples and rubbing her scalp in concentration. She hummed, a long, thoughtful drone. Behind her, a broom fell over.

“I can see you laying face down on the floor and moaning,” Dickie said. “Like you got a tummy ache.”

“Ha ha, okay, Dickie that’s a… I definitely don’t do that. Very active imagination,” Webby said. She had spent the remainder of the previous day doing exactly that in the middle of her farmhouse.

“There might be ice cream involved? No. _Chocolate_ ,” Dickie said. She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! You’re a ‘death by chocolate’ person!”

“I am not! I didn’t even eat chocolate!” That this was because she didn’t _have_ chocolate she chose to omit.

“Come onnnnn, Webby. You can’t just sit there! You look so pathetic. It makes me go ‘fix this poor girl who’s bringing a downer 3 AM mood to my 3 PM pre-happy hour bar’. Spill. We are in a no-judgment zone. Unless you put something I don’t like on the jukebox. I will judge the hell out of you for that.”

Webby slumped over the bar and put her head down. She immediately regretted it when her forehead felt wet on contact, but stayed in that position. “I… yesterday I asked Lena to go with me to the Flower Dance festival.”

“Bet that went real well.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“A little bit.”

“Oh.”

“Lena’s not really a joiner. I’ve tried.”

“I know that _now_ ,” Webby grumbled. “And I think… I think she got really mad at me.”

“Ouch,” Dickie said, nodding sympathetically and continued looking attentive.

“And… I guess… that’s it?”

“She got mad at you?” Dickie stepped back, reached over and grabbed another glass, wiping it down. “Like, how mad are we talking here?”

“There was shouting.”

“I dunno. That’s not really how Lena does ‘mad’ in my experience. She just kind of does a lot of sneering.”

“Oh no,” Webby said. She sank into the stool even further. “So she’s not mad, she’s _furious?_ ”

“Hoo kay… different tactic.” Dickie snapped her finger. “Look, don’t worry about it, okay? If she needs space, give her space. I mean. She lives in that tower all by herself for a reason, right?”

“Maybe,” Webby said grudgingly. “I don’t know. I still feel. Bad. Why does this feel so bad? I just wanted to say this one thing to Lena but then I thought about what Violet said about the festival’s history and its roots in fertility rites and, and, dates and, and…”

Webby stared helplessly up at Dickie, who in turn stared back. “Huh,” she said.

“Huh what?”

“Look, don’t worry about that stuff,” Dickie said, shaking her head. “I love Violet, she’s a blast. Sometimes literally. But when it comes to town history stuff, she knows more about the history, but not so much about how it applies to the town as it is today. You feel me?”

“Not really.”

“It’s just a fun time! Like a fair. Except it’s out in the woods. It’s really not a big deal. Here, let’s do this. Two birds, one stone: I take you to the fair! That way you’ll see what it’s about _and_ you can get your mind off being all bummed out.”

Webby’s mouth hung open as Dickie put her elbow up on the grill and leaned casually against it. _That’s how you ask this kind of thing,_ Webby thought. _Cool, casual, like it’s not a big deal, basically the exact opposite of what I did! I’m in the presence of a master._

Dickie leaned against the stove, found a greasy spot and nearly fell over. She caught herself in time and plastered a bigger smile on her face.

“You know what,” Webby said. “I should! Let’s do it!”

“Cool. I gotta be there anyway, Fin has a day off for the festival and I have a stall to run. Alone. But I can show you around, it’ll be awesome.”

Webby smiled for the first time since last night. The smile faltered almost as quickly as it formed. She had never really done this sort of thing before. “So is there… is there a sign up sheet?”

“For...?”

“Yeah, like, don’t I need to be invited or should I ask or…”

“Oh dear sweet Webby,” Dickie said. “Don’t you worry about that. You got a white dress? White dress is traditional. A blouse if you can’t”

“I... might... have a dress.” It hadn’t seen much use, but she was sure it was somewhere in her boxes.

“There you go then.”

Not one to go into a social situation without as much guidance as possible, Webby was able to wrangle enough details about any necessary formalities to ease her nerves. If she was going to _party_ then she should do it in a way that was right and proper. Dickie also gave her a time and date and with that, Webby was satisfied. There was still a weight in her gut when she thought of the last time she saw Lena, but it wasn’t consuming all of her attention. She knew herself well enough to know that she would dwell. That Dickie seemed committed to staving off the worst of it for her sake was genuinely touching.

“There’s gonna be food and dancing and some good loot,” Dickie counted off on her fingers. “Commemorative scarecrows. We’re really big on that here for some reason.”

“Oh!” Webby said. “I could use another one of those.”

“Yeah, ol’ Murder of Crows is probably getting lonely out there.”

* * *

Lena avoided Webby’s farm for a week.

Which was _completely_ the wrong way to look at it. Lena walked specific circuits in the forest and she rotated through them. If anything, skipping the route that took her to Webby’s was to correct for walking that path too frequently. Let the plants grow back.

Still.

Lena avoided Webby’s farm for a week.

In fact, maybe Lena wasn’t in the mood to wander around in the forest. Maybe that was kind of a lame thing to do. What kind of sentimental fool swans around in the caress of low-hanging branches, humming to the aimless tune of a babbling brook? A lame nerd, that’s who.

Yeah.

This whole… Webby thing, Lena decided, only demonstrated just how much of an edge she had lost. Isolating herself used to mean something. There was a reason behind it. A _damn good_ reason. She had forgotten that.

“Where are you…” she hissed to herself as she stood atop a creaky wicker chair, half climbing into a cupboard nailed to the side of the wall.

The tower, Lena knew, looked like a piece of crap. A teetering pile of stone that looked like it was trying to bait a strong breeze into knocking it over. If architecture had a sense of humor, Lena’s tower was a bad joke. And if people thought the _outside_ was a nightmare, the inside would send them running. There were no interior walls. The tower was too small for that. Each floor was an entire room and they became less suitable for habitation as they went up. The topmost room of the tower, where it tapered to a point, was more like a crawl space where lost rats went to die. The spiraling wooden stairs that ran the length of the tower’s crooked spine were too narrow to allow for large objects so the bulkiest of Lena’s belongings were kept at the bottom. Her forge with its tools, her cauldron with its accompanying vials and ingredients, the kitchen, all of these crowded the base of the tower. Her room was directly above it and… was not much to speak of.

Despite all the tower’s best efforts, Lena had still managed to make the place a certain degree of cozy. If she found a pretty shell or stone, or if a colorful bolt of fabric or yarn caught her eye in the town market, she would fashion it into something that would bring a splash of color to the place. And for however decrepit the place looked, Lena had spent days daubing every crack and gap in the tower with a seal of clay. It was much cozier than it looked, and it was Lena who had taken the extra effort to make it so.

Lena and no one else.

No one was there to help her, and it turned out she had no need for that help anyway. She had forgotten her roots.

Which was why she was balanced precariously on a chair burrowing into her cupboard hunting down the really good stuff she had squirreled away for the season. It was time to get back to the real shit. Spellcasting under a midnight moon, tower windows flashing with eldritch energies. Webby? Tea time with Violet? It was long past time for her to get into some trouble.

“Hah!” In the dark she saw the lumpen shape of dried roots straining against a mesh sack. She seized it and stepped off onto solid ground. She was breathing hard, harder than her exertions warranted. She could feel her pulse in her throat. Lena closed her eyes and steadied her breath, willed herself to calm down.

_Stupid. Why am I so hung up over this?_

“It’s not like I _enjoyed_ hurting her feelings,” Lena said aloud. “But there needs to be a line.” Flakes of dried root sprinkled over her wrist as he held it up in front of her, wringing it with her hand. “If she can’t understand there’s a line then she’s the one who’s the problem, not _me_. Okay?”

The roots wilted. Lena sighed.

Outside, beyond the patchwork walls of the tower, something metal went _clang_ as it clattered over rough stones. Lena sighed again.

“Of course,” she grumbled. She set the roots on a table. Her heart really wasn’t in it anyway.

She picked up a plum-colored shawl on her way to the door and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stepped outside.

A short distance from the tower was a ramshackle structure of stone, clay and a tin roof. It reached up to Lena’s chest; its occupants did not need much space.

Nor did they need a door. There was simply an entrance, gaping wide with nothing to block it. The shadows within were too thick for this time of day, with the sun high overhead. Yet within was an inky, impenetrable void.

It didn’t need a door because a door wouldn’t contain them. And no woodland predator would dare step a paw or talon inside. The chickens seldom ventured out.

If you wanted to call them chickens. Lena did. Violet didn’t. Violet was usually right about most things, but Lena felt she owed it to them. She had made them what they are now, after all.

She raised her arm and rapped her knuckles on the metal roof. The sound echoed, far too much for a space so small.

“Sound off you lil freaks,” she said casually.

Bending over to peer into the shadows, Lena waited.

To anyone else, the darkness remained absolute, complete, unchanging. To Lena, the texture of the shadows changed. Things moved. Pairs of eyes resolved out of the murk. They swirled with a subtle light that moved viscously like sunlight on an oil slick. Three pairs. Out of four.

“Ugh.” Lena slouched against the coop. “Tiffany. Where’d you go, girl?” She stood up.

Shadows leave an impression. It’s kind of what they are, an impression on the ground, an impression of a person. And that impression lingered, like the wake of a shark. It just didn’t do so on _this_ world. There were others, resting over the surface of the material one, like the stuff that formed on top when stew cools. There were only a handful of people in this world who could see this.

Lena’s eyes flashed black, with the same miasmic swirl of colors. Before her, the otherwise unremarkable scene of scrabbly brush and packed-in dirt faded, their colors muted, shadows deepened. A vivid trail of glowing purple chicken prints that now weaved further uphill, past the tower and towards the bluff that overlooked the sea.

Tiffany always was drawn to heights. Lena was pretty sure she liked to imagine herself being really big. With an exasperated look skywards, she walked up the slope.

They had been chickens, once upon a time. But, well, hey. Things happen. Magic. They were at least still chicken _shaped_.

Shadows took on new dimensions of life around Lena. Like ripples spreading from wherever she stepped. So of _course_ the moment she entered the valley weird shit was going to happen.

Once every blue moon, Lena would come across some shadow-touched thing. The actual mechanics of this escaped Lena, but what other explanation could there be other than Lena’s presence in the forest? Strawberries don’t turn black and smolder with an aura of incredible dread all by themselves. At least it took a while for Lena to realize that. She wasn’t really a plant person when she first arrived.

For some reason, chickens were more inclined to absorb shadow magic than anything else in the forest. Chickens were just weird.

It was rare, and Lena was pretty good at finding and wrangling anything she’d infected with shadows before anyone else ran afoul of it. It was a good thing too. If anyone linked Lena to these shadow things, they’d have an actual good reason to run her out of the valley.

So yes. There had to be lines.

Lena trudged up the slope and the trail ended at a cliff. There, at the very edge, was a blackened, shattered tree stump standing alone. Probably the victim of a lightning strike from one of the spring storms. Tiffany’s tracks ended where the roots had been wrenched out of the earth, forming a natural shelter.

Lena clapped her hands. “Okay. Come out, Tiffany, you little monster.”

Shadow chickens were weird things. As far as Lena could tell, they were completely harmless. Violet was the only other person who knew of their existence and had spent a year observing one of them. She had summed up her conclusion as “their existence is terrifying but other than that they are utterly unremarkable chickens.” She had also — in a moment that caused Lena to realize that her little scientist friend was far more reckless and prone to risk-taking than she had seemed — taken one of their shadow eggs to make and eat a breakfast sandwich. It was spicy, but in a pleasant way, she had reported.

Once satisfied that Violet wasn’t going to actually die after that experiment, she had taken to selling a few jars of shadow mayonnaise. It was a big hit during the annual Starduck Valley Fair. It was… probably okay. The money was good and Lenal needed to eat.

From the darkness under the burnt stump, something pooled out into the open, like black tar. It coalesced into the shape of a chicken, and with the abruptness of a light turning on, the full animal snapped into existence. Sable black feathers, black beak, black, gimlet eyes with that mad, wild bird stare. Tiffany jerked her head around so that one eye focused on Lena.

“Bawk,” went Tiffany.

Lena rolled her eyes and scooped the bird up. As she did a splash of color far below at the bottom of the cliff caught her eye. A patch of white, a flutter of primary colors. Figures moving over green grass.

Oh.

Lena’s free hand automatically went up to gently sift through Tiffany’s feathers. As if _she_ was the one whose legs had become unsteady.

“I forgot the dance was today,” Lena said. Tiffany, in response, pecked at her shawl.

At the foot of the cliff, Lena could see a cluster of white tents decorated with colorful pennants and dotted with garish displays of spring flowers bouquets. 

Folks milled around, moving from stall to stall, basking in sunlight, moving in groups.

In Lena’s arms, Tiffany shifted, moving through shapes until it settled back into a chicken again, only now with its head in a good position to look down at the festival.

Lena stayed, and stared, and she did this until she felt an ache from holding a chicken and bending at an awkward angle. She sat down, her legs kicking freely over the edge of the cliff. Tiffany squirmed in her arms.

“Don’t be nervous,” Lena said, shushing the animal. “I’m just looking.”

She peered over the edge. There was a time when she was more down to party. Times change. This was probably for the best anyway. There were only so many pastels she could take at one time.

* * *

“It’s perfect!” Webby said.

“It’s very pastel,” Dickie said.

“I like that.”

This year’s spring scarecrows wore a vivid pink shirt under mint green overalls and wore a fluffy blonde wig. Seasonal scarecrows were a thing and this delighted Webby. She resolved to have them all. She resolved to have a field that was worth having them all.

She counted out her cash to the vendor and he turned to pick out her purchase. When Webby took it in her arms, the stuffed straw scratched at her. It was harder to deal with all this out of her practical farm clothes. Bereft of pockets she had dug out a small purse bag to keep her things. Her dress was white and frilly and fit in well enough with what the local women wore, though the spring air was a bit brisk. Dickie had gone for a breezy blouse that looked really good on her and somewhere down the line she had found a wreath of purple flowers which sat on her blonde hair. It drew Webby’s eyes at times.

An errant tuft of straw from the scarecrow scratched her neck.

“Itchy.” She hoisted it up by its pole, propping it on her shoulder. The scarecrow bobbed behind her, nearly wiping Dickie out, who hopped back.

“Come on, Webby, let’s stow that thing,” Dickie said, coming up beside her. “We need to experience that good fair food.”

* * *

Lena’s fingers curled into Tiffany’s side, fingertips buried into her black feathers. Tiffany pecked at her shoulder.

“Ow,” said Lena.

Webby was easy to spot in the crowd, with that garish, scrawny thing hanging off her.

Not to mention the scarecrow.

It wasn’t that Lena _disliked_ Dickie...

Well.

It didn’t matter. This was fine. This was for the best. Webby should meet other people and stop wasting her time with Lena. This was good.

* * *

Dickie circled around the booth and nudged the attendant aside.

“Don’t worry buddy, I’m a professional,” she said as she turned to the ice machine and studied it.

Behind her, Webby read the sign over the booth. “Ice flowers?”

“Shaved ice,” Dickie said. She gingerly tested a lever on the machine. “But it has this special hose that shapes the ice so it’s, like, a flower petal and the syrup covers it in all these colors so it’s like the real thing. Look.” She picked up a paper cup and pulled the lever. The machine hummed.

What she ended up with, Webby thought, kind of looked like a bloodstained snowball.

“Did they change this thing?” Dickie said. She pulled another lever. “Whoa!” She ducked as a stream of cherry syrup squirted out of a nozzle. Webby leaned out of the way.

Dickie grinned, devilishly. “How good are your reflexes, Webster?” She pulled another lever.

* * *

And now they were playing around! Which was...

Lena forced out a breath she had been holding in. Which was fine. It was still fine.

In her arms, Tiffany lifted up one leg and dragged a claw down Lena’s forearm.

Lena hissed. “No. Bad.” She whispered as she kept looking down.

* * *

By the time the booth attendant got reinforcements and chased the two off, Dickie and Webby were on the run, laughing and sticky with syrup.

Webby had dodged most of the incoming fire, but her scarecrow had caught a splash of cherry across its cheek.

“I’m totally sorry about that, by the way,” Dickie said. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“No,” Webby said, “I like it. It’s like a scar. It looks tough now.”

“You’re a trip. Come on. We’ll go to my booth and clean up.”

“Is someone else working there?”

“Nah. I put a bowl out. Honor system, you know? Put money in, take change out. That’s about all I do anyway. Everything here’s been prepared in advance.”

“And that works?” They walked across the festival square, where another booth stood, unattended save for a bowl with some loose change. The whole festival was so casual. Relaxed. Webby couldn't help but feel a smidge of disappointment. There was no charged air of pagan ritual. Not so much as a scrap. It was just people and their voices filling the air. She felt silly, remembering how momentous it had felt, how much she had built it up.

“I don’t hear my boss complaining,” Dickie was saying. She stepped behind the booth and produced a couple water bottles. “Want a four-pack of deep fried chocolate chip cookie dough?”

“No, thank you. Isn’t your boss your grandma who isn’t even in the valley?”

“Yeah, so no complaints. Here.”

The earlier breeze had faded leaving them with the sun. Webby took the water bottle gratefully. Summer was coming.

As she moved to drink, her eyes went upwards, to the top of the cliff the festival sat under. The sun was in her eyes and she squinted at the glare but for a moment, just for a moment...

There was a silhouette.

“Oh,” she said, “Is there --”

“Hold still!” Dickie said. She produced a clean cloth from a compartment in the booth and soaked it with water. “You got a smudge on your beak there.”

Webby looked away from the cliff and took the cloth. “Oh, thanks.”

* * *

“Like, is it really necessary for her to get so close to Pink like that? That’s rude, right? Pretty sure that’s just straight up rude. Like, personal space am I right?”

Tiffany tilted her head to the side so that one eye was looking up at Lena.

“I’m just saying that if Webby’s gonna hang out with some rando it should be someone who isn’t getting in her face like that. Like, what about Violet? She -- oh, there she is.”

* * *

“Three bottles of water, please,” Violet said. She walked up beside Webby. Flanking her, Ty and Indy waved.

“It’s the whole family!” Dickie said. “Have any fun?”

“The experience has been nominal,” said Violet.

Behind her, Ty held up a hand. “Actually, I would like a s--”

“Water,” Violet said.

“What about--”

“Water.”

Indy nudged him. “We want water while Violet is around, dear.”

“I guess we do,” Ty said with a sigh.

Webby flashed a smile at Violet and Violet returned with a nod of her head. “Blood sugar,” she said by way of explanation.

“Haha, no need to explain, dear,” Indy said loudly. He turned his attention to Webby and Dickie. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Webby?”

“Am I! I’ve got this amazing new scarecrow and I threw a snowball! In spring!”

“Yes,” Indy said. He turned a sharp eye to Dickie. “We all saw you misuse the snow cone station.”

“Ah ha ha,” Dickie said as she shrugged. “We just really got into the spirit of things I guess!”

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t bring your guitar this year.”

“Well, I felt like the new ban on improvised music was kind of directed at me, which is very unfair,” Dickie said.

“You were playing folk music?” Webby said.

“No. I was just trying to bring a little of the 21st century into our staid traditions,” Dickie said. “But they just weren’t ready for my sound. If I can’t play, then I’m gonna dance. Webster, Violet, it’s just about time. Let’s go!”

There was a gravitational draw as people who had been milling around the booths at the outskirts of the festival were slowly gathering in the middle. Webby noted they mainly congregated in pairs, though there were a few in groups of three or four. Most of the rest of the festival goers remained on the edges, waiting expectantly.

Beside her, Violet shook her head. “I am content to remain an observer. For archival purposes.”

“Sure. How about you, Webby?”

“Uh, I don’t know the steps.”

“It’s pretty easy. Step this way, step that way. This isn’t a dance off, it’s folk. The kind that oldies and kids can do. 

Webbie mulled this over. She had remained on the fringes of town for a season. She hadn’t really thought of it that way, and Lena being there didn’t make it feel like she had been alone. But now...  
It was time she make herself a little bit more known around the place and taking part in the festivities seemed a good start. She’d always wanted to feel included, and part of that meant including yourself.

“Sure. I’m in.” Webby rammed her scarecrow’s pole into the earth and it slouched over the booth like a patron drowning its sorrows.

“Sweet,” said Dickie. She nudged Webby and they made their way to the dancers, sorting themselves out in a row. When Webby wasn’t moving fast enough, Dickie grabbed her arm and pulled on it enthusiastically. “When I give you the signal, we’re really gonna tear the dance floor up!”

“Uh!” Webby said, but she was helpless in the current. She looked back at the booth and Violet waved at her. Her eyes went back up to the top of the cliff, and she saw nothing.

* * *

_You’re ridiculous._

Lena took wide strides downhill, churning through the grass, Tiffany tucked underneath one arm. Eyes straight ahead and her beak clenched.

The faint sound of festival music chased her until the wind carried it away.

* * *

Later that night, Tiffany would be asleep — or what passed for sleep among shadow chickens — nestled deep within the wide-open coop that predators avoided. Nearby, in the tower and up one level, Lena turned restlessly in the creaky wooden frame of her bed. Sleep came fitfully, if it ever came at all, and she was exhausted and staring up at the ceiling, a cloud of nervous energy and emotions in her head.

Some distance away, further up the river and in the middle of a small plot of arable land that was now guarded by two scarecrows, Webby tossed and turned in her own bed until finally she threw off the covers and stared up at her own ceiling, her heart racing for reasons she could not begin to guess at.

The festival was nice. Dickie was nice. She had shown Webby around, gotten her to talk to more people, and had danced with her when the time had come to dance, and it had been…

… nice.

Still there was the sense that something had been lacking, or missing, and it stuck to her like the kernel of popcorn she had eaten in the festival had wedged itself between her teeth. Felt, but nearly impossible to extract.

And the two stared up at two different ceilings and sighed, and neither were to have a good night’s sleep.

Spring was over.

###  **End of Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes part one. Thank you everyone for reading so far! Soup and I have been having a wonderful time brainstorming, writing, illustrating, and I think and hope that our efforts have shown through.
> 
> There will be a hiatus because summer hasn't been fully written yet. When it's ready I hope you'll read it then.
> 
> In the meantime we're on tumblr [here](https://soup-du-silence.tumblr.com/) and [here](https://partly-cloudyskies.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
